GATE 

Emerson  Hough 


•  , 


vfo 


The 
BROKEN  GATE 


By  Emerson  Hough 

The  Broken  Gate 

The  Man  Next  Door 

The  Magnificent  Adventure 

Let  Us  Go  Afield 

Out  of  Doors 

The  Story  of  the  Cowboy 

The  Girl  at  the  Halfway  House 

D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY 
Publishers  New  York 

2O3  B 


He  felt  her  hands  resting  on  his  head  as  though  in  shelter. 

[PAGE  87] 


The 
BROKEN  GATE 

A  NOVEL 


BY 

EMERSON  HOUGH 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  MAN  NEXT  DOOB,"  "THE  MAGNIFICENT  ADVENTUBB,' 
"54°  4(K  OR  FIGHT,"  "THE  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 

M.  LEONE  BRACKER 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BT  E&IEBSON  HoCGH 
COPYRIGHT,  1917,  BY  THE  PICTOBIAL  RE  VIEW  COMPAJTY 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


TO 

ARTHUR  T.  VANCE 
FAITHFUL  AND  KINDLY  COUNSELOR 


M1S202 


CONTENTS 

CH'APTER  PAGE 

I.  THE  HOMECOMING  OF  DIEUDONNE  LANE  ...  i 

II.  AURORA  LANE 16 

III.  Two  MOTHERS 31 

IV.  IN  OPEN  COURT 46 

V.  CLOSED  DOORS 73 

VI.  THE  DIVIDING  LINE 88 

VII.  AT  MIDNIGHT 101 

VIII.  THE  EXTRAORDINARY  HORACE  BROOKS  .  .  .  113 

IX.  THE  OTHER  WOMAN  CONCERNED  .  .  .  .  .  129 

X.  THE  MURDER 135 

XI.  IN  THE  NAME  or  THE  LAW 146 

XII.  ANNE  OGLESBY 161 

XIII.  "As  You  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 178 

XIV.  AURORA  AND  ANNE *     .  198 

XV.  THE  ANGELS  AND  Miss  JULIA 212 

XVI.  HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY  AT  LAW  .     .     .     .  225 

XVII.  AT  CHURCH 238 

XVIII.  AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 254 

XIX.  THE  MOB 267 

XX.  THE  IDIOT 288 

XXI.  A  TRUE  BILL 297 

XXII.  Miss  JULIA 317 

XXIII.  THE  STATE  vs.  DIEUDONNE  LANE 325 

XXIV.  THE  SACKCLOTH  OF  SPRING  VALLEY    .     .     .     .329 
XXV.  BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 333 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

He  felt  her  hands  resting  on  his  head  as  though  in 

shelter Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Your  Honor,"  said  he,  "I  presume  I  am  the  defendant 

in  this   case" 54 

"I  was  kissing  you  and  saying  good-by  .  .  .  when  Miss 

Julia  came  in " 78 

"Anne !   What  made  you  come  ?" 260 


The 
BROKEN   GATE 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  HOMECOMING  OF  DIEUDONNE  LANE 

EEJIT !    My  son  John !    Whip  ary  man  in  Jackson 
County!     Whoop!     Come  along!     Who'll  fight 
.     old  Eph  Adamson?" 

The  populace  of  Spring  Valley,  largely  assembled  in 
the  shade  of  the  awnings  which  served  as  shelter  against 
an  ardent  June  sun,  remained  cold  to  the  foregoing  chal 
lenge.  It  had  been  repeated  more  than  once  by  a  stout, 
middle-aged  man  in  shirt  sleeves  and  a  bent  straw  hat, 
who  still  turned  a  truculent  gaze  this  side  and  that,  tak 
ing  in  the  straggling  buildings  which  lined  the  public 
square — a  quadrangle  which  had  for  its  center  the  brick 
courthouse,  surrounded  by  a  plat  of  scorched  and  faded 
greensward.  At  his  side  walked  a  taller  though  younger 
man,  grinning  amiably. 

The  audience  remained  indifferent,  although  the  chal 
lenger  now  shifted  his  position  to  the  next  path  leading 

I 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


out  to  a  street  entrance ;  and  repeated  this  until  he  had 
quite  traversed  the  square.  Only,  at  the  farther  corner 
back  of  him,  a  woman  paused  as  she  entered  the  court 
house  inclosure — paused  and  turned  back  as  she  caught 
sight  of  the  challenger  and  heard  his  raucous  summons, 
although  evidently  she  had  been  hurrying  upon  some 
errand. 

Ephraim  Adamson  walked  hither  and  thither,  his 
muscular  arms  now  bared  to  the  elbows ;  and  at  his  side 
stalked  his  stalwart  son,  who  now  and  then  beat  his 
fists  together,  and  cracked  his  knuckles  with  a  vehemence 
like  that  of  pistol  shots.  But  none  paid  great  attention 
to  either  of  the  Adamsons.  Indeed,  the  eyes  of  most 
now  were  following  the  comely  figure  of  this  woman,  as 
usually  was  the  case  when  she  appeared. 

"Take  her  now,  right  how  she  is,"  said  one  of  the  side 
walk  philosophers,  "and  you  got  to  admit  yonder' s  the 
handsomest  woman  in  this  town,  and  has  been  for  twenty 
years."  He  nodded  to  where  she  stood,  hesitating. 

That  she  was  a  tallish  woman,  of  less  than  middle  age 
and  of  good  figure,  was  perceptible  even  at  some  dis 
tance  as  she  finally  advanced.  She  was  well  clad  enough, 
and  with  a  certain  grace  and  trimness  in  her  appoint- 
ings — indeed  seemed  smart  in  a  quiet  and  unobtrusive 
way — very  neat  as  to  hands  and  feet,  and  trim  as  to 
the  small  turban  which  served  now  as  her  only  defense 
against  the  heat  of  the  summer  sun. 

2 


THE  HOMECOMING 


"  'Rory  Lane,"  said  one  languid  citizen  to  another, 
as  they  sat  on  comfortable  boxes  in  front  of  the  leading 
grocery  store.  "Wonder  where  she's  goin',  this  time  of 
day?  Anyhow,  she  runs  into  Old  Man  Adamson  on  his 
regular  weekly  spree.  He  wants  to  fight,  as  usual,  him 
and  his  half-wit  boy.  It's  a  shame." 

"But  they  kin  do  it,"  responded  the  other  ruminat- 
ingly.  "It's  got  so  lately,  every  Saturday  afternoon  reg 
ular,  him  and  his  half-wit  yonder  stands  off  the  whole 
town.  No  man  wants  to  fight  a  eejit — it  ain't  proper." 

"Some  has,"  remarked  the  first  citizen  thoughtfully. 

"Well,  anyways,  old  Joel  Tarbush,  the  town  marshal, 
had  ought  to  look  after  such  things.  There  he  sets  now, 
over  yonder  under  the  awnings  in  front  of  the  Golden 
Eagle,  and  he  sees  them  two  plain  enough." 

His  crony  only  chuckled.  "Reckon  Old  Man  Tarbush 
knows  when  he's  well  off,"  was  his  sententious  reply. 

The  first  speaker  again  pointed  a  thumb  toward  the 
courthouse  grounds,  where  the  woman  now  was  cross 
ing  toward  the  street.  She  was  walking  rapidly,  appar 
ently  anxious  to  escape  the  notice  of  the  two  men  in 
the  yard,  and  intent  on  her  purpose,  as  though  she  feared 
being  late  at  some  appointment.  The  younger  and  taller 
was  hastening  toward  her,  but  shrinking  from  him  she 
hurried  on  across  through  the  turnstile,  and  out  into  the 
street.  She  advanced  with  a  nod  here  and  there  to 
those  whom  she  met  along  the  street  front,  but  she 

3 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


showed  no  effusiveness,  and  did  not  pause  to  talk  with 
anyone,  although  all  seemed  to  know  her.  Some  women 
smiled  at  her  faintly.  Some  men  smiled  at  her  also — 
after  she  had  passed.  All  talked  of  her,  sometimes  nod 
ding,  head  to  head. 

The  woman  so  frankly  discussed  presently  disappeared 
around  the  corner  of  the  street  which  led  down  to  the 
railway  station,  a  half-mile  distant.  And  now  could  be 
heard  the  rumble  of  the  town  "bus,"  bringing  in  its 
tribute  from  the  train  to  the  solitary  hotel. 

"Huh !"  said  one  of  these  twain,  "  'Rory  was  too  late, 
like  enough,  if  she  was  plannin'  to  meet  Number  Four, 
fer  any  reason.  Here  conies  the  bus  a'ready." 

Aurora  Lane  had  indeed  been  too  late  to  meet  the 
train,  but  not  too  late  to  attain  the  purpose  of  her  hur 
ried  walk.  A  moment  later  the  two  watchers  on  the 
sidewalk,  and  all  the  other  Saturday  loafers,  saw  her 
emerge  again  from  the  street  that  led  up  from  the  rail 
way  station. 

She  was  not  alone  now.  A  young  man  had  spied 
her  from  his  place  in  the  hotel  bus,  and,  whether  in 
answer  to  a  signal  from  her,  or  wholly  of  his  own  no 
tion — regarding  which  there  was  later  discussion  by  the 
two  gossips  above  mentioned — had  sprung  out  to  join 
her  on  the  street. 

He  walked  by  her  side  now,  holding  her  by  the  arm, 
patting  her  shoulder,  talking  to  her  volubly,  excitedly, 

4 


THE  HOMECOMING 


all  the  time — a  tall  young  man  in  modern  garb ;  a  young 
man  with  good  shoulders  and  a  strong  and  easy  stride. 
His  face  seemed  flushed  with  eagerness  and  happiness. 
His  hat,  pushed  back  on  his  brow,  showed  the  short 
curling  auburn  hair,  strong  and  dense  above  the  brown 
cheeks.  Those  who  were  close  might  have  seen  the 
kindly,  frank  and  direct  gaze  of  his  open  blue  eyes. 

A  certain  aloof  distinction  seemed  to  cling  about  the 
young  man  also  as  he  advanced  now,  laughing  and  bub 
bling  over  with  very  joy  of  life  and  eagerness  at  greet 
ing  this  woman  at  his  side — this  woman  whose  face 
suddenly  was  glorified  with  a  light  none  ever  had  seen 
it  bear  before.  Why  not?  It  was  his  mother — Aurora 
Lane,  the  best  known  woman  of  Spring  Valley,  and  the 
woman  with  least  reputation. 

The  two  passed  directly  into  the  center  of  the  town's 
affairs,  and  yet  they  seemed  apart  in  some  strange  way. 
They  met  greetings,  but  the  greetings  were  vague,  curi 
ous.  No  one  knew  this  young  man. 

"Huh!"  exclaimed  one  of  the  two  town  critics  once 
more.  "There  they  go.  Pretty  sight,  ain't  it!  Who's 
he?" 

Old  Silas  Kneebone  leaned  to  his  friend,  Aaron  Cray- 
bill,  on  the  adjacent  store  box.  "Taller'n  she  is,  and  got 
red  hair,  too,  like  hers.  I  wonder — but  law! — No,  good 
law!  No!  It  kain't  be.  She  ain't  nobody's  wife,  and 
never  was." 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"But  there  they  go,  walking  through  the  streets  in 
broad  daylight,  as  bold  as  you  please,"  commented  his 
crony. 

"I  dunno  as  I'd  call  her  bold,  neither,"  rejoined  Silas. 
"  'Rory  Lane,  she's  kept  up  her  head  all  these  years,  and 
I  must  say  she's  minded  her  own  business.  Everybody 
knows,  these  twenty  years,  she  had  a  baby,  and  that  the 
baby  died ;  but  that's  about  all  anybody  ever  did  know. 
The  baby's  dad,  if  it  had  one,  has  hid  damned  well — 
the  man  nor  the  woman  neither  don't  live  in  this  town 
that  can  even  guess  who  he  was.  But  who's  this  young 
feller?  Some  relative  o'  hern  from  somewheres,  like 
enough — reckon  she  must  'a'  been  goin'  down  to  the 
train  to  meet  him.  Never  told  nobody,  and  just  like 
her  not  to.  She  sure  is  close-mouthed.  They're  going 
on  over  towards  her  place,  seems  like,"  he  continued. 
"Say,  don't  she  look  proud?  Seems  like  she's  glad  over 
something.  But  why — that's  what  I  want  to  know — 
why?" 

The  two  persons  thus  in  the  public  eye  of  Spring 
Valley  by  this  time  had  come  again  to  the  corner  of  the 
courthouse  inclosure,  and  apparently  purposed  to  pass 
diagonally  through  the  courthouse  yard.  Now  and  again 
the  young  man  turned  in  friendly  fashion  to  the  on 
lookers,  none  of  whom  he  knew,  but  whom  he  fancied 
to  be  acquaintances  of  his  companion.  He  himself  was 
altogether  a  stranger  in  the  town.  He  felt  a  chill  at 

6 


THE  HOMECOMING 


the  curious  stares,  the  silent  half  smiles  he  encountered, 
but  attributed  that  to  bucolic  reticence,  so  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  turned  to  Aurora  Lane.  Had  any  at 
that  time  heard  his  speech,  they  surely  must  have  felt 
yet  more  surprise. 

"Mom !"  said  he.  "Mother !  I've  got  a  mother,  after 
all — and  such  a  splendid  one!  I  can't  believe  it  at  all — 
it  must  all  be  a  dream.  To  be  an  orphan  all  my  life — 
and  then  to  get  word  that  I'm  not — that  I've  a  mother, 
after  all — and  you !  Why,  I'd  have  known  you  anyhow, 
I'm  sure,  if  I'd  never  seen  you,  even  from  the  picture 
I  had.  It  was  when  you  were  a  girl.  But  you've  not 
changed — you  couldn't.  And  it's  you  who've  been  my 
mother  all  the  time.  It's  fine  to  be  home  with  you  at 
last.  So  this  is  the  town  where  you  have  lived — that 
I've  never  seen.  And  here  are  all  your  friends?" 

"Yes,  Don,"  said  she,  "all  I  have,  pretty  much."  Au 
rora  Lane's  speaking  voice  was  of  extraordinary  sweet 
ness. 

"Well,  you  have  lived  here  all  your  life." 

"Yes,"  she  smiled. 

"And  they  all  know  you." 

"Oh,  yes,"  noncommittally.  "It  was  too  bad  you  had 
to  be  away  from  me,  Don,  boy.  You  seem  like  a  stranger 
to  me — I  can't  realize  you  are  here,  that  you  are  my 
own  boy,  Dieudonne !  I'm  afraid  of  you — I  don't  know 
you — and  I'm  so  proud  and  frightened,  so  surprised,  so 

7 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


glad — why,  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  But  I'd  have 
known  you  anywhere — I  did  know  you.  You're  just  as 
I've  always  dreamed  of  you — and  I'm  glad — I'm  so  very 
glad!" 

"Mom!  I  loved  your  little  picture,  but  I  never  knew 
how  much  I  loved  you  till  now — why — you're  my 
mother!  My  mother!  And  I've  never  seen  you — I've 
never  known  you — till  right  now.  You're  a  ripper,  that's 
what  you  are! 

"And  is  that  where  you  live,  over  yonder?"  he  added 
quickly,  to  conceal  the  catch  in  his  throat,  the  quick 
moisture  in  his  eyes.  His  mother!  And  never  in  all 
his  life  had  he  seen  her  face — this  sweet,  strange,  wist 
ful,  wonderful  face.  His  mother!  He  had  not  even 
known  she  was  alive.  And  now,  so  overwhelmed  was 
he,  he  did  not  as  yet  even  think  of  unraveling  the  veil 
of  ignorance  or  deceit— call  it  what  one  might — which 
had  left  him  in  orphanage  all  his  life  till  now. 

"Yes,  over  yonder,"  said  Aurora,  and  pointed  across 
the  square.  "That  little  house  under  the  shade  trees, 
just  at  the  corner.  That's  home  and  workshop  for  me, 
Don." 

She  spoke  softly,  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  him,  the  color 
of  her  cheeks  deepening. 

"Not  so  much  of  a  house,  is  it  ?"  laughed  the  boy,  tears 
on  his  face,  born  of  his  new  emotion,  so  sudden,  so  tre 
mendous  and  so  strange. 

8 


THE  HOMECOMING 


"Not  so  very  much,"  she  assented,  laughing  gayly  also, 
and  also  in  tears,  which  gave  him  sudden  grief — "but  it 
has  served." 

"Well,  never  mind.  We're  going  to  do  better  out 
West,  Mom.  We're  going  to  have  you  with  us  right 
away,  as  soon  as  I  can  get  started." 

"What— what  do  you  say — with  us!    With  us?" 

She  spoke  in  swift  dismay,  halting  in  her  walk.  "What 
do  you  mean,  Don — us?" 

"I  didn't  tell  you  the  news,"  said  he,  "for  I've  just  got 
it  myself. 

"What  a  week !  I  heard  of  you — that  you  were  alive, 
that  you  were  living  here — though  why  you  never  told 
me  I  can't  dream — and  now,  today,  Anne!  Two  such 
women — and  for  me.  I  can  call  God  kind  to  me.  As 
if  I  deserved  it!" 

He  did  not  see  her  face  as  he  went  on  rapidly : 

"We  didn't  know  it  ourselves  much  more  than  an  hour 
or  so  ago — Anne  and  I.  She  came  out  on  the  same 
train  with  me — we  finished  school  together,  don't  you  see ! 
Anne  lives  in  Columbus,  fifty  miles  west.  She's  fine! 
I  haven't  had  time  to  tell  you." 

He  didn't  have  time  now — did  not  have  time  to  note 
even  yet  the  sudden  pallor  which  came  upon  his  mother's 
face.  "Anne?"  she  began. 

"Huh !"  said  Silas  Kneebone  again  from  his  place  un 
der  the  awning,  "there  she  goes — 'Rory  Lane.  Wonder 

9 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


who  that  kin  be  with  her!  And  I  wonder  what  old 
Eph  Adamson's  goin'  to  say  to  them!  Watch  at  them 
now." 

The  young  man  and  his  mother  by  this  time  were 
within  the  courthouse  fence  and  coming  face  to  face 
with  the  two  public  challengers,  who  had  so  fervently 
notified  all  mankind  of  their  wish  to  engage  in  personal 
combat. 

Those  beneath  the  awnings  now  saw  the  tall  figure 
of  the  half-wit  boy,  Johnnie  Adamson,  advance  toward 
Aurora  Lane.  They  saw  her  and  the  tall  young  stranger 
halt  suddenly — saw  the  young  man  gently  push  the 
woman  back  of  him  and  stand  full  front,  frowning,  ques 
tioning,  almost  directly  against  the  half-wit.  He  reached 
out  a  hand  and  thrust  him  back,  sternly,  fearlessly,  half 
contemptuously. 

"Wait,  Don!  Come  back!"  called  out  Aurora  Lane. 
"Don't  get  into  trouble  here — come — come  away !" 

She  plucked  at  the  sleeve  of  his  coat  to  draw  him  back. 
It  was  too  late.  The  half-wit,  cracking  his  knuckles 
now  yet  more  loudly,  and  knocking  his  fists  together, 
had  wholly  lost  his  amiable  smile.  Something  primordial 
was  going  on,  deep  down  in  his  rudimentary  brain. 

As  for  Eph  Adamson,  he  also  stood  scowling  and 
silent,  a  sudden  wave  of  resentment  filling  his  soul  at 
seeing  the  happiness  of  these  two. 

"No,  you  don't — just  you  leave  him  be!"  called  out 

10 


THE  HOMECOMING 


Eph  Adamson,  as  the  young  man  pushed  the  half-wit 
back  from  him,  his  own  blue  eyes  now  beginning  to 
glint.  "Leave  him  alone,  unless  you  want  to  fight.  He 
can  lick  you  anyways,  whoever  you  are.  Do  you  want 
to  fight?" 

"No,  why  should  I?     I  don't  know  you." 

Don  Lane  turned  toward  the  stranger,  still  frowning 
and  somewhat  wondering,  but  in  no  terror  whatever. 

"I  don't  know  you  neither,  nor  what  you're  doin'  here, 
but  you've  got  to  fight  or  'pologize,"  said  Eph  Adamson, 
arriving  at  this  conclusion  through  certain  mental  proc 
esses  of  his  own  not  apparent.  "You  got  to  have  our 
consent  to  cross  this  here  courtyard.  This  is  my  son 
John,  and  you  shan't  insult  him." 

"Get  on  away — step  back,"  said  Don  Lane.  "I  guess 
it's  all  right,  but  let  my  mother  and  myself  alone — 
we're  just  going  home." 

A  sudden  wave  of  rage  and  wonder,  mingled,  filled 
the  soul  of  drunken  Eph  Adamson  as  his  venom  rose 
to  the  boiling  point. 

"Mother!"  he  half  screamed,  "your  mother?  Who're 
you?  You're  a  pretty  pair,  you  two,  ain't  you?  She 
said  her  baby  died  twenty  years  ago.  Did  she  have 
some  more?  Who're  you?  Mother? — Say,  after  all, 
are  you  the  town's  boy — coming  pushing  past  my  son 
with  her — your  mother!  What  do  you  mean  ?  If  you're 
her  son,  you  ain't  got  no  mother,  nor  no  father  neither." 

ii 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


And  now  there  came  a  pause,  an  icy  pause — icy  it 
was,  out  there  in  the  glare  of  the  hot  summer  sun. 
These  four  who  stood  in  view  of  all  the  village  might 
have  been  statues  for  the  time,  so  motionless,  so  tense 
was  each. 

Not  many  actually  heard  the  words  of  old  Eph  Adam- 
son — words  wrung  out  of  the  bitterness  of  his  own  soul 
perhaps,  but  words  intolerable  none  the  less.  None 
had  heard  the  words  of  Aurora  Lane  and  the  young 
man  as  they  had  spoken  previous  to  this.  None  guessed 
who  the  stranger  was  or  might  be — none  but  drunken 
Eph  Adamson.  But  all  could  see  what  now  happened. 

For  one  instant  the  young  man  stood  almost  like  a 
statue.  Then  with  one  sudden  thrust  of  his  fist  he 
smote  the  old  man  full  in  the  mouth,  so  swift  and 
hard  a  blow  that  Adamson  dropped  prostrate,  and  for 
the  time  motionless. 

A  sudden,  instantaneous,  electric  buzz,  a  murmur,  ran 
all  around  the  square.  A  sound  of  shuffling  feet  and  fall 
ing  boxes  might  have  been  heard  as  men  here  and  there 
rose  eagerly,  their  necks  craned  out  toward  this  swiftly 
made  arena. 

They  saw  the  half-wit  boy  now  advance  upon  Don 
Lane  with  a  roar  or  bawl  of  rage,  his  arms  swinging 
flail-like.  All  expected  to  see  the  newcomer  turn  and 
run.  Not  so.  He  simply  stood  for  a  half  instant,  side 
stepped,  and  again  swung  in  close  upon  his  foe.  Old 

12 


THE  HOMECOMING 


Silas  Kneebone  described  the  affair  many  a  time  after 
wards,  at  a  time  when  Spring  Valley  knew  more  about 
Don  Lane. 

"You  see,  the  eejit,  he  gets  up  again,  hollering,  and 
he  goes  in  again  at  Dewdonny,  bound  for  to  knock  his 
head  off.  But  Dewdonny,  he  ducks  down  like  a  regular 
prize-fighter — I  hear  tell,  at  colleges,  them  athaletes  they 
have  to  learn  all  them  sort  of  things — and  he  put  up  a 
fight  like  a  regular  old  hand.  But  all  the  time  he  keeps 
hollering  to  the  crowd,  'Take  him  away!  Take  him 
away !  Keep  him  off,  I  say !  I  don't  want  to  hit  him !' 

"Well,  folks  begun  to  laugh  at  Dewdonny  then — be 
fore  they  knowed  who  he  was — thinking  he  was  afraid 
of  that  eejit;  yet  it  didn't  seem  like  he  was,  neither,  for 
he  didn't  run  away.  At  last  he  hits  the  eejit  fair  a 
second  time,  and  he  knocks  him  down  flat.  Folks  then 
begun  to  allow  he  could  hit  him  whenever  he  wanted 
to,  and  knock  him  down  whenever  he  pleased. 

"Now,  the  eejit,  he  gets  up  and  begins  to  beller  like 
a  calf.  He  puts  his  hand  on  his  face  where  Dewdonny 
Lane  had  done  hit  him  the  last  time  or  two  and  he 
hollers  out,  Ta,  he  hit  me !' 

"But  his  pa  could  only  set  up  on  the  grass  and  shake 
his  head.  I  reckon  old  Eph  was  soberer  then  than 
he  had  been  five  minutes  sooner.  Say,  that  boy  had  a 
punch  like  the  kick  of  a  full  growed  mule! 

"Of  course,  you  all  know  what  happened  then.  It  was 

13 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


then  that  old  Man  Tarbush  come  in,  seeing  the  boy  had 
both  of  them  two  licked.  He  got  up  his  own  nerve  after 
that.  So  now  he  goes  over  there  to  the  courthouse 
ground,  through  the  gate  where  they  all  was,  and  he 
lays  his  hand  on  Dewdonny  Lane  and  then  on  the  eejit. 

"  'I  arrest  you  both  for  disturbing  of  the  peace/  says 
he  then.  'Come  on  now,  in  the  name  of  the  law.' 

"  'The  law  be  damned !'  says  Dewdonny  Lane  then. 
'Go  take  this  man  to  jail.  Are  you  crazy — what  do  you 
mean  by  arresting  me  when  I'm  just  walking  home  with 
my  mother?  This  wasn't  my  fault.  I  didn't  want  to 
hit  him. 

"  'Come  on,  Mom !'  says  he,  and  before  Tarbush  could 
help  hisself  he'd  took  'Rory  Lane  by  the  arm  again  and 
off  they  went,  and  right  soon  they  was  in  their  house — 
them  two,  the  milliner  and  her  boy. 

"And  Joel  Tarbush  he  heard  him  call  her  'Mom'  right 
there — that's  how  it  all  begun  to  git  out. 

"That's  right — this  was  the  town  milliner  and  the  boy 
she  sent  away,  that  never  died  none  at  all  nohow. — 
'Rory  Lane,  and  her  boy  we  all  thought  was  dead.  And 
we'd  never  knowed  it  nor  dreamed  it  till  he  spoke,  right 
there  in  the  public  square!  'My  mother!'  says  he.  Can 
you  beat  that? 

"Then  'Rory  Lane  turns  around  and  fronts  the  whole 
lot  of  them.  Says  she:  'Yes,  it's  true!  This  is  my 
son,  Dewdonny  Lane,'  says  she.  She  said  it  cold. 

14 


THE  HOMECOMING 


"That  was  before  we  knowed  all  about  how  she  had 
put  him  through  college,  and  that  this  was  his  first  visit 
home,  and  the  first  time  he'd  ever  seen  her — his  own 
mother!  I  heard  as  how  he'd  thought  all  his  life  he 
was  a  orphan,  and  someone  on  the  inside  that  very  week 
— just  when  he'd  finished  in  college — had  wrote  him  that 
he  wasn't  no  orphan,  but  had  a  mother  living  right  here ! 
So  here  he  comes,  hot  foot — and  didn't  he  spill  the 
beans ! 

"She'd  tried  her  durnedest  to  keep  it  all  covered  up — 
and  you  must  say  she'd  made  one  big  fight  of  it,  fer 
it's  hard  fer  a  woman  to  keep  her  eyes  and  her  hands 
off  of  her  own  flesh  and  blood,  even  if  it  ain't  legal.  But, 
somehow,  it's  hard  to  keep  that  sort  of  thing  covered 
up,  for  a  woman.  It  all  comes  out,  time'n  again — ain't 
it  the  truth?  How  she  done  it  for  twenty  years  is  a 
miracle.  But  law!  What's  twenty  years,  come  to  for- 
gettin'  things  like  what  she  done?" 


CHAPTER  II 
AURORA  LANE 

WHILE  the  doughty  town  marshal,  endowed  now 
with  a  courage  long  foreign  to  his  nature,  was 
leading  away  his  sobbing  prisoner,  followed  by 
the  prisoner's  dazed  yet  angered  parent,  these  other  two, 
mother  and  son,  continued  rapidly  on  their  way  toward 
the  home  of  Aurora  Lane.     The  young  man  walked  in 
silence,  his  enthusiasm  stilled,  although  he  held  his  moth 
er's  hand  tight  and  close  as  it  lay  upon  his  arm.     His 
face,    frowning    and    stern,    seemed    suddenly    grown 
strangely  older. 

They  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the  tawny  grassplot 
of  the  courthouse  yard,  crossed  the  street  once  more, 
and  turned  in  at  the  long  shady  lane  of  maples  which 
made  off  from  that  corner  of  the  square.  Here,  just 
in  the  neutral  strip  between  business  and  residence  prop 
erty,  opposite  a  wagon-making  and  blacksmith  shop,  and 
adjoining  the  humble  abode  of  a  day-laborer,  they  came 
to  a  little  gate  which  swung  upon  a  decrepit  hinge.  It 
made  in  upon  a  strip  of  narrow  brick  walk,  swept  scru 
pulously  clean,  lined  with  well-kept  tulips ;  a  walk  which 
in  turn  arrived  at  the  foot  of  a  short  and  narrow  stair 

16 


AURORA  LANE 


leading  up  to  the  porch  of  the  green-shuttered  house 
itself. 

It  was  a  small  place  of  some  half-dozen  rooms,  and 
it  served  now,  as  it  had  for  these  twenty  years,  as  home 
and  workshop  alike  for  its  tenant.  Aurora  Lane  had 
lived  here  so  long  that  most  folk  thought  she  owned 
the  place.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  owned  only  a  vast 
sheaf  of  receipted  bills  for  rent  paid  to  Nels  Jorgens, 
the  wagon-maker  across  the  street.  In  all  these  twenty 
years  her  rent  had  been  paid  promptly,  as  were  all  her 
other  bills. 

Aurora  Lane  was  a  milliner,  who  sometimes  did  dress 
making  as  well — the  only  milliner  in  Spring  Valley — 
and  had  held  that  honor  for  many  years.  A  tiny  sign 
above  the  door  announced  her  calling.  A  certain  hat, 
red  of  brim  and  pronounced  of  plume,  which  for  un 
known  years  had  reposed  in  the  front  window  of  the 
place — the  sort  of  hat  which  proved  bread-winning 
among  farmers'  wives  and  in  the  families  of  villagers 
of  moderate  income — likewise  announced  that  here  one 
might  find  millinery. 

When  she  first  had  moved  into  these  quarters  so  many 
years  ago,  scarce  more  than  a  young  girl,  endeavoring 
to  make  a  living  in  the  world,  the  maples  had  not  been 
quite  so  wide,  the  grass  along  the  sidewalk  not  quite 
so  dusty. 

It  was  here  that  for  twenty  years  Aurora  Lane  had 

17 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


made  her  fight  against  the  world.  It  had  been  the  dream, 
the  fierce,  flaming  ambition  of  all  her  life,  that  her  son, 
her  son  beloved,  her  son  born  out  of  holy  wedlock,  might 
after  all  have  some  chance  in  life. 

It  was  for  this  that  she  aided  in  his  disappearance  in 
his  infancy,  studiously  giving  out  to  all — without  doubt 
even  to  the  unknown  father  of  the  boy — the  word  that 
the  child  had  died,  still  in  its  infancy,  in  a  distant  state, 
among  relatives  of  her  own.  She  herself,  caught  in  the 
shallows  of  poverty  and  unable  to  travel,  had  not  seen 
him  in  all  these  years — had  not  dared  to  see  him — had 
in  all  the  dulled  but  not  dead  agony  of  a  mother's  yearn 
ing  postponed  her  sweet  dream  of  a  mother's  love,  and 
with  unmeasurable  bravery  held  her  secret  all  these 
awful  years.  Schooling  here  and  there,  at  length  the 
long  term  in  college,  had  kept  the  boy  altogether  a 
stranger  to  his  native  town,  a  stranger  even  to  his  own 
mother.  He  did  not  know  his  own  past,  nor  hers.  He 
did  not  dream  how  life  had  been  made  smooth  for  him, 
nor  at  what  fearful  cost.  Shielded  about  always  by  a 
mother's  love,  he  had  not  known  he  had  a  mother. 

This  was  as  his  mother  had  wished.  As  for  him,  in 
some  way  he  received  the  requisite  funds.  He  wondered 
only  that  he  knew  so  little  of  his  own  people,  half 
orphan  though  he  was.  He  had  been  told  that  his  fa 
ther,  long  since  dead,  had  left  a  certain  sum  for  the 
purpose  of  his  education,  although  further  of  his  own 

18 


AURORA  LANE 


history  he  knew  nothing.  That  he  was  not  of  honorable 
birth  he  never  once  had  dreamed.  And  now  he  had 
heard  this  charge  for  the  first  time — heard  it  made  pub 
licly,  openly,  before  all  the  world,  on  this  which  was  to 
have  been  the  happiest  day  in  all  his  life. 

But  if  Don  Lane  knew  little  about  himself,  there 
lacked  not  knowledge  of  his  story,  actual  or  potential, 
here  in  Spring  Valley,  once  his  presence  called  up  the 
past  to  Spring  Valley's  languid  mind.  There  had  not 
yet  been  excitement  enough  for  one  day.  Everyone,  male 
and  female,  surging  here  and  there  in  swift  gossiping, 
now  called  up  the  bitter  story  so  long  hid  in  Aurora 
Lane's  bosom. 

As  for  Aurora,  she  had  before  this  well  won  her  fight 
of  all  these  years.  She  was  known  as  the  town  milliner, 
a  woman  honorable  in  her  business  transactions  and 
prompt  with  all  her  bills.  Socially  she  had  no  place. 
She  was  not  invited  to  any  home,  any  table.  The  best 
people  of  the  town,  the  banker's  wife,  the  families  of 
the  leading  merchants,  bought  bonnets  of  her.  Ministers 
— while  yet  new  in  their  pulpits — had  been  known  to  call 
upon  her  sometimes — one  had  even  offered  to  kneel  and 
pray  with  her  in  her  workroom,  promising  her  salvation 
even  yet,  and  telling  her  the  story  of  the  thief  upon 
the  cross.  Once  Aurora  Lane  went  to  church  and  sat 
far  back,  unseen,  but  she  did  so  no  longer  now,  had 
not  for  many  years,  feeling  that  she  dared  not  appear 

19 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


in  the  church — the  church  which  had  not  ratified  her 
nuptial  night! 

She  had  her  place,  definite  and  yet  indefinite,  accepted 
and  yet  rejected,  here  in  this  village.  But  gradually, 
dumbly,  doggedly  she  had  fought  on;  and  she  had  won. 
Long  since,  Spring  Valley  had  ceased  openly  to  call  up 
her  story.  If  once  she  had  been  wearer  of  the  scarlet 
letter,  the  color  thereof  had  faded  these  years  back. 
She  was  the  town  milliner,  a  young  woman  under  suspi 
cion  always,  but  no  man  could  bring  true  word  against 
her  character.  She  had  sinned — once — no  more.  If  she 
had  known  opportunity  for  other  sins  than  her  first  one, 
she  held  her  peace.  Human  nature  were  here  as  it  is  else 
where — women  as  keen;  men  as  lewd.  But  the  triumph 
of  Aurora  Lane  might  now  have  been  called  complete. 
She  had  "lived  it  down." 

This  long  and  terrible  battle  of  one  woman  against 
so  many  strangely  enough  had  not  wholly  embittered 
her  life,  so  strong  and  sweet  and  true  and  normal  had 
it  originally  been.  She  still  could  smile — smile  in  two 
fashions.  One  was  a  pleasant,  sunny  and  open  smile 
for  those  who  came  in  the  surface  affairs  of  life.  The 
other  was  deeper,  a  slow,  wry  smile,  very  wise,  and  yet 
perhaps  charitable,  after  all.  Aurora  Lane  knew ! 

But  all  these  years  she  had  worked  on  with  but  one 
purpose — to  bring  up  her  boy  and  to  keep  her  boy  in 
ignorance  of  his  birth.  He  had  never  known — not  in  all 

20 


AURORA  LANE 


these  years!  It  had  been  her  dream,  her  prayer,  that 
he  might  never  know. 

And  now  he  knew — he  must  know. 

They  stepped  through  the  little  picket  gate,  up  the 
tiny  brick  walk  and  across  the  little  narrow  porch  to 
gether,  into  the  tiny  apartments  which  had  been  the 
arena  for  Aurora  Lane — in  which  she  had  fought  for 
her  own  life,  her  own  soul,  and  for  the  life  of  her  son, 
her  tribute  to  the  scheme  of  life  itself.  Here  lay  the 
penetralia  of  this  domicile,  this  weak  fortification  against 
the  world. 

In  this  room  were  odds  and  ends  of  furniture,  a  few 
pictures  not  ill-chosen — pictures  not  in  crude  colors,  but 
good  blacks  and  whites.  Woman  or  girl,  Aurora  Lane 
had  had  her  own  longings  for  the  great  things,  the 
beautiful  things  of  life,  for  the  wide  world  which  she 
never  was  to  see.  Her  taste  for  good  things  was  in 
stinctive,  perhaps  hereditary.  Had  she  herself  not  been 
an  orphan,  perhaps  she  had  not  dared  the  attempt  to 
orphan  her  own  son.  There  were  books  and  magazines 
upon  the  table,  mixed  in  with  odds  and  ends  of  scraps 
of  work  sometimes  brought  hither;  the  margin  between 
her  personal  and  her  professional  life  being  a  very  vague 
matter. 

Back  of  this  central  room,  through  the  open  door, 
showed  the  small  white  bed  in  the  tiny  sleeping  room. 
At  the  side  of  this  was  the  yet  more  tiny  kitchen  where 

21 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Aurora  Lane  all  these  years  had  cooked  for  herself  and 
washed  for  herself  and  drawn  wood  and  water  for  her 
self.  She  had  no  servant,  or  at  least  usually  had  not. 
Daily  she  wrought  a  woman's  miracles  in  economy.  Year 
by  year  she  had,  in  some  inscrutable  fashion,  been  able 
to  keep  up  appearances,  and  to  pay  her  bills,  and  to  send 
money  to  her  son — her  son  whom  she  had  not  seen  in 
twenty  years — her  son  for  whom  her  eyes  and  her  heart 
ached  every  hour  of  every  day.  She  sewed.  She  made 
hats.  What  wonder  if  the  scarlet  of  the  hat  in  the 
window  had  faded  somewhat — and  what  wonder  if  the 
scarlet  of  the  letter  on  her  bosom  had  faded  even 
more?  .  .  .  Because  it  had  all  been  for  him,  her  son, 
her  first-born.  And  he  must  never,  never  know!  He 
must  have  his  chance  in  the  world.  Though  the  woman 
should  fail,  at  least  the  man  must  not. 

So  it  was  thus  that,  heavy-hearted  enough  now,  she 
brought  him  to  see  the  place  where  his  mother  had 
lived  these  twenty  years.  And  now  he  knew  about  it, 
must  know.  It  took  all  her  courage — the  last  drop  of 
her  splendid,  unflinching  woman-courage. 

"Come  in,  Don/'  she  said.    "Welcome  home !" 

He  looked  about  him,  still  frowning  with  what  was  on 
his  mind. 

"Home?"  said  he. 

"Don !"  she  said  softly. 

"Tough  work,  wasn't  it,  waiting  for  me  to  get  through, 

22 


AURORA  LANE 


dear  Mom?  For  I  know  you  did  wait.  I  know  you 
meant  that  some  day " 

He  laid  a  hand  on  her  head,  his  lips  trembling.  He 
knew  he  was  postponing,  evading.  She  shrank  back  in 
some  conviction  also  of  postponing,  evading.  All  her 
soul  was  honest.  She  hated  deceit — though  all  her  life 
she  had  been  engaged  in  this  glorious  deceit  which  now 
was  about  to  end. 

"Tough  sometimes,  yes,"  she  said,  smiling  up  at  him. 
"But  don't  you  like  it  ?" 

"If  my  dad  had  lived/'  said  Don,  "or  if  he  had  had 
very  much  to  give  either  of  us,  you'd  never  have  lived 
this  way  at  all.  Too  bad  he  died,  wasn't  it,  Mom?" 

He  smiled  also,  or  tried  to  smile,  yet  restraint  was 
upon  them  both,  neither  dared  ask  why. 

She  caught  up  his  hand  suddenly,  spying  upon  it  a 
strand  of  blood. 

"Don!"  she  exclaimed,  wiping  it  with  her  kerchief, 
"you  are  hurt!" 

He  laughed  at  this.  "Surely  you  don't  know  much  of 
boxing  or  football,"  said  he. 

"You  ought  not  to  fight,"  she  reproved  him.  "On 
your  first  day — and  all  the  town  saw  it,  Don !  You  and 
I — we  ought  not  to  fight.  What — on  the  first  day  I've 
seen  you  in  all  these  years — the  first  day  you're  out 
of  college — the  first  day  I  could  ever  in  all  my  life  claim 
you  for  my  very  own?  I  believe  I  would  have  claimed 

23 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


you — yes,  I  do!  But  you  came — when  you  knew  you 
had  a  mother,  why  you  came  to  her,  didn't  you,  Don? 
Even  me.  But  you  mustn't  fight." 

"Why?"  He  turned  upon  her  quickly,  his  voice  sud 
denly  harsh,  his  eyes  narrowing  under  drawn  brows. 
"Why  shouldn't  I  fight?" 

He  seemed  suddenly  grown  graver,  more  mature, 
strong,  masterful,  his  eye  threatening.  She  almost  smiled 
as  she  looked  at  him,  goodly  as  he  was,  her  pride  that 
she  had  borne  him  overpowering  all,  her  exultation  that 
she  had  brought  a  man  into  the  world,  a  strong  man, 
one  fit  to  prevail,  scornful  of  hurt — one  who  had  fought 
for  her !  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  a  man  had  fought 
for  her,  and  not  against  her. 

But  on  the  soul  of  Aurora  Lane  still  sat  the  ancient 
dread.  She  saw  the  issue  coming  now. 

"Mother "  said  he,  throwing  his  hat  upon  the  table 

and  walking  toward  her  quickly. 

"Yes,  Don."  (She  had  named  her  son  Dieudonne — 
"God-given."  Those  who  did  not  know  what  this  might 
mean  later  called  him  "Dewdonny,"  and  hence  "Don.") 

"I  didn't  thrash  them  half  enough,  those  fellows,  just 
now." 

"Don't  say  that,  Don.  It  was  too  bad — it  was  terrible 
that  it  had  to  be  today,  right  when  you  were  first 
coming  here.  I  had  been  waiting  for  you  so  long,  and 

I   wanted " 

24 


AURORA  LANE 


"Well,  I  tell  you  what  I  want — I  want  you  just  to 
come  away  with  me.  I  want  to  get  you  away  from  this 
town,  right  away,  at  once,  as  quick  as  I  can.  I'm  be 
ginning  to  see  some  things  and  to  wonder  about  others. 
I  am  ashamed  I  have  cost  you  so  much — in  spite  of  what 
Dad  left,  you  had  to  live  close — I  can  see  that  now — 
although  I  never  knew  a  thing  about  it  until  right  now. 
I  feel  like  a  big  loafer,  spending  all  the  money  I  have, 
while  you  have  lived  like  this.  Where  did  you  get  it, 
Mom?" 

She  swept  a  gesture  about  her  with  both  hands.  "I 
got  it  here,"  said  she  suddenly.  "It  all  came  from — here. 
You  father  sent  you — nothing!  I've  not  let  you  know 
all  the  truth — you've  known  almost  nothing  of  the 
truth." 

Then  her  native  instinct  forced  her  to  amend.  "At 
least  half  of  it  came  from  here.  It  was  honest  money, 
Don,  you  know  it  was  that,  don't  you — you  believe  it 
was  honest?" 

"Money  that  would  have  burned  my  fingers  if  I  had 
known  how  it  came.  But  I  didn't.  What's  up  here? 
Have  you  fooled  me,  tricked  me — made  a  loafer  of  me? 
I  supposed  my  father  set  aside  enough  for  my  education 
— and  enough  for  you,  too.  What's  been  wrong  here? 
What's  under  all  this?  Tell  me,  now!" 

His  mother's  eyes  were  turned  away  from  him.  "At 
least  we  have  done  it,  Don,"  said  she,  with  her  shrewd, 

25 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


crooked  smile.  "We've  not  to  do  it  over  again.  You 
can't  forget  what  you  have  learned — you  can't  get  away 
from  your  college  education  now,  can  you?  You've  got 
it — your  diploma,  your  degree  in  engineering.  You're  a 
college  man,  Don,  the  only  one  in  Spring  Valley.  And 
I'm  so  proud,  and  I'm  so  glad.  Oh!  Don — Don " 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  breast  shyly,  almost  afraid 
of  him  now — the  first  hand  she  had  ever  laid  upon  the 
heart  of  any  man  these  twenty  years.  It  was  her  son, 
a  man  finished,  a  gentleman,  she  hoped.  .  .  .  Could  he 
not  be  a  gentleman?  So  many  things  of  that  sort  hap 
pened  here  in  America.  Poor  boys  had  come  up  and 
come  through — had  they  not?  And  even  a  poor  boy 
might  grow  up  to  be  a  gentleman — was  not  that  true 
— oh,  might  it  not  after  all  be  true? 

He  laid  his  own  hand  over  hers  now,  the  hand  on 
which  the  blood  was  not  yet  dried. 

"Mom,"  said  he,  "I  ought  to  go  back  and  thrash  the 
life  out  of  that  man  yet.  I  ought  to  wring  the  neck 
of  that  doddering  old  fool  marshal.  I  ought  to  whip 
every  drunken  loafer  on  those  streets.  Whose  busi 
ness  was  it?  Couldn't  we  cross  the  square  without  all 
that?" 

He  stopped  suddenly,  the  fatal  thought  ever  recurring 
to  his  mind.  But  he  lacked  courage.  Why  should  he 
not  ?  Was  this  not  far  worse  than  facing  death  for  both 
of  them?  Their  eyes  no  longer  sought  one  another. 

26 


AURORA  LANE 


"Mom "  said  he,  with  effort  now. 

"Yes,  my  boy/' 

"WherJs  my  dad?" 

A  long  silence  fell.    Could  she  lie  to  him  now? 

"The  truth  now !"  he  said  after  a  time. 

"You  have  none,  Don!"  said  she  gaspingly  at  last. 
"He's  gone.  Isn't  that  enough?  He's  dead — yes — call 
him  dead — for  he's  gone." 

He  pushed  back  roughly  and  looked  at  her  straight. 

"Did  he  really  leave  any  money  for  my  education  ?" 

She  looked  at  him,  her  throat  fluttering.  "I  wish  I 
could  lie,"  said  she.  "I  do  wish  I  could  lie  to  you.  I 
have  almost  forgot  how.  I  have  been  trying  so  long 
to  live  on  the  square — I  don't  believe,  Don,  I  know  how 
to  do  any  different.  I've  been  trying  to  live  so  that — 
so  that " 

"So  what,  mother?" 

"So  I  could  be  worthy  of  you,  Don!  That's  been 
about  all  my  life." 

"/  have  no  father?" 

She  could  not  reply. 

"Then  was  what — what  that  man  said — was  that  the 
truth  r 

After  what  seemed  to  both  of  them  an  age  of  agony 
she  looked  up. 

She  nodded  mutely. 

Then  her  hand  gripped  fiercely  at  his  coat  lapel.  A 

27 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


great  dread  filled  her.  Must  she  lose  also  her  boy, 
for  whom  she  had  lived,  for  whom  she  had  denied  her 
self  all  these  years — the  boy  who  was  more  than  life 
itself  to  her?  Her  face  was  white.  She  looked  up  into 
another  face,  a  strange  face,  that  of  her  son ;  and  it  was 
white  as  her  own. 

"I  didn't  know  it,"  said  he  simply  at  length.  "Of 
course,  if  I  had  known,  I  wouldn't  have  done  what  I  did. 
I  would  have  worked." 

"No,  no !  Now  you  are  just  fitted  to  work.  It's  over 
— it's  done — we  have  put  you  through." 

"You  told  me  my  father  was  dead.  Where  is  he — 
who  is  he?" 

"I  will  never  tell  you,  Don,"  said  she  steadily,  "not  so 
long  as  you  live  will  I  tell  you.  I  have  never  told  any 
one  on  earth,  and  I  never  will." 

"Then  how  do  they  know — then  why  should  that  man 
say  what  he  did?" 

"They  know — about  you — that — that  you  happened — 
that's  all.  They  thought  you  died  as  a  child,  a  baby — 
we  sent  you  away.  They  don't  know  who  it  was — your 
father — I  couldn't  have  lived  here  if  anyone  had  known 
— that  was  my  secret — my  one  secret — and  I  will  keep 
it  all  my  life.  But  here  are  you,  my  boy!  I  will  not 
say  I  am  sorry — I  will  never  say  that  again !  I  am  glad 
— I'm  glad  for  anything  that's  given  me  you!  And  you 
fought  for  me — the  first  time  anyone  ever  did,  Don." 

28 


AURORA  LANE 


He  was  turning  away  from  her  now  slowly,  and  she 
followed  after  him,  agonized. 

"It  wasn't  your  fault,  Don!"  said  she.  "Try  to  re 
member  that  always.  Haven't  I  taken  it  up  with  God — 
there  on  my  knees  ?"  She  pointed  to  the  little  room  where 
the  corner  of  the  white  bed  showed.  "On  my  knees !" 

She  followed  him  as  he  still  walked  away.  "Oh,  Don/' 
she  cried,  "what  do  you  mean,  and  what  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"I'm  going  to  try  to  forget  everything  of  all  my  life. 
God!  if  I  could  undo  it — if  I  could  forget  how  I  got 
my  education,"  said  he.  "Tell  me,  didn't  he  help  at  all- 
did  you,  all  alone,  bring  me  up,  far  away,  never  seeing 
me,  educating  me,  keeping  me — taking  care  of  me — 
didn't  he,  my  father,  do  anything  at  all — for  you?" 

"No,  I  did  it — or  at  least  half  of  it." 

"And  who  the  other  half?" 

"Never  mind,  Don,  never  mind."  She  patted  eagerly 
on  the  lapel  of  his  coat,  which  once  more  she  had  caught 
and  was  fingering.  "Oh,  this  was  to  have  been  my  very 
happiest  day — I  have  been  living  and  working  for  this 
all  these  long,  long  years — for  the  day  when  I'd  see  you. 
Let  me  have  a  little  of  it,  can't  you,  Don?  If  you  should 
forsake  me  now,  I  will  know  that  God  has;  and  then 
I'll  know  I  never  had  a  chance." 

Quickly  he  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shoulder.     "No,  I'll 


29 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked.  "What  is  it  that 
you  will  do?" 

"Find  out  who  he  was,"  said  he,  his  face  haggard. 

"You  will  never  do  that,  Don." 

"Oh,  yes.    And  when  I  do " 

"What  then?" 

"I'll  kill  him,  probably.  At  least  I'll  choke  this  lie 
or  this  truth,  whichever  it  is,  down  the  throats  of  this 
town.  God !  I'm  filius  nullius!  I'm  the  son  of  no  man ! 
I'm  worse.  I'm  a  loafer.  I've  been  supported  by  a 
woman — my  own  mother,  who  had  so  little,  who  was 
left  alone--oh,  God!  God!" 

"Don,"  she  cried  out  now.  "Don,  I'd  died  if  I  could 
have  kept  it  from  you.  Oh,  my  son — my  son !" 


CHAPTER  III 
TWO  MOTHERS 

THE  young  man  stood  motionless,  facing  the  white- 
faced  woman  who  had  pronounced  his  fate  for 
him.  Happily  it  chanced  that  there  came  inter 
ruption,  for  a  moment  relieving  both  of  the  necessity  of 
speech. 

The  click  of  the  little  crippled  gate  as  it  swung  to 
brought  Aurora  Lane  to  her  senses  now.  She  hastened 
to  the  door,  toward  the  outer  stair.  She  met  someone 
at  the  door. 

"Julia !"  she  exclaimed.  "Come  in.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad. 
Come !  He's  here — he's  come — he's  right  here  now !" 

There  entered  now  the  figure  of  a  youngish-looking 
woman,  her  hair  just  tinged  with  gray  here  and  there 
upon  the  temples;  a  woman  perhaps  the  junior  of  Au 
rora  Lane  by  a  year  or  so.  Of  middle  stature,  she  was 
of  dark  hair,  and  of  brown  eyes  singularly  luminous 
and  soft.  Not  uncomely,  one  would  have  called  her 
at  first  sight.  The  second  glance  would  have  shown  the 
limp  with  which  Julia  Delafield  walked,  the  bent-top 
cane  which  was  her  constant  companion.  She  was  one 
of  those  handicapped  in  the  race  of  life,  a  cripple  from 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


her  childhood,  but  a  cripple  in  body  only.  One  might 
not  look  in  her  face  without  the  feeling  that  here  was 
a  nature  of  much  charm. 

Miss  Julia  likewise  was  owner  of  two  smiles.  The 
one  was  sad,  pathetic,  the  smile  of  the  hopeless  soul. 
The  other,  and  that  usually  seen  by  those  about  her,  was 
wide  and  winning  beyond  words — the  smile  which  had 
given  her  her  place  in  the  hearts  of  all  Spring  Valley. 
These  many  years  "Miss  Julia,"  as  she  was  known  to 
all,  had  held  her  place  as  "city  librarian,"  in  which  quasi- 
public  capacity  she  was  known  of  all,  and  loved  of  all 
as  well. 

She  came  in  now  smiling,  and  kissed  Aurora  Lane 
before  she  allowed  herself  to  see,  standing  in  the  inner 
room,  the  tall  young  man,  who  seemed  to  fill  up  the 
little  apartment.  A  swift  color  came  into  her  face  as, 
with  a  sort  of  summoning  up  of  her  courage,  she  went 
up  to  him,  holding  out  her  hands.  Even  she  put  up 
her  cheek  to  be  kissed  by  him.  It  was  her  peculiarity 
when  feeling  any  emotion,  any  eagerness,  to  flush 
brightly.  She  did  so  now. 

"Oh,  Miss  Julia!"  exclaimed  Don.  "I'm  glad  to  see 
you.  Why,  I  know  you  too — I  feel  as  though  I've  al 
ways  known  you  just  as  you  are !  So — you're  my  fairy 
godmother,  who's  got  a  real  mother  for  me !  All  these 
years — till  I  was  a  man  grown — how  could  you? — but 
I'd  know  you  anywhere,  because  you're  just  the  image 

32 


TWO  MOTHERS 


of  the  picture  you  sent  me  with  that  of  her.  I  mean 
when  you  wrote  me: last  week  for  the  first  time — that 
wonderful  letter — and  told  me  I  had  a  mother,  and  she 
was  here,  but  that  I  mustn't  ever  come  to  see  her.  Of 
course,  I  wired  at  once  I  was  coming!  See  now " 

"You  are  tall,  Don,"  said  Miss  Julia  softly.  "You  are 
very  tall.  You  are — you  are  fine !  I'm  so  glad  you  grew 
up  tall.  All  the  heroes  in  my  books  are  tall,  you  know." 
She  laughed  aloud  now,  a  rippling,  joyous  little  laugh, 
and  hooking  her  cane  across  the  chair  arm,  sank  back 
into  Aurora  Lane's  largest  rocker,  her  tender,  wistful 
face  very  much  suffused. 

Don  fetched  his  mother  also  a  chair,  and  seated  him 
self,  still  regarding  Miss  Julia  curiously.  He  saw  the 
two  women  look  at  one  another,  and  could  not  quite 
tell  what  lay  in  the  look. 

As  for  Miss  Julia,  she  was  still  in  ignorance  of  the 
late  events  in  the  public  square,  because  she  had  come 
directly  across  to  Aurora  Lane's  house  after  the  clos 
ing  of  her  own  duties  at  the  library  this  Saturday  after 
noon,  when  most  of  her  own  patrons  were  disposed  for 
the  open  than  for  books. 

"Yes,  Don,"  said  she  again,  "you  are  fine !"  Her  eyes 
were  all  alight  with  genuine  pride  in  him.  "I'm  so  glad 
after  all  you  came  to  see  us  before  you  went  on  West — 
even  when  I  told  you  you  mustn't !  Oh,  believe  me,  your 
mother  scolded  me !  But  I  presume  you  are  in  a  hurry 

33 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


to  get  away  ?  And  you've  grown  up !  After  all,  twenty 
years  is  only  a  little  time.  Must  you  be  in  a  hurry 
to  leave  us?" 

"I  ought  not  to  be,"  said  he,  smiling  pleasantly  after 
all.  "Surely  I  ought  to  come  and  see  you  two  good 
partners  first — I  could  not  go  away  without  that.  Oh, 
mother  has  told  me  about  you — or  at  least  I'm  sure  she 
was  just  going  to  when  you  came  in.  Strange — I've 
got  to  get  acquainted  with  my  mother — and  you.  But 
I  know  you — you're  two  good  partners,  that's  what  you 
are — two  good  scouts  together — isn't  it  true?" 

Miss  Julia  flushed  brightly.  His  chance  word  had 
gone  passing  close  to  the  truth,  but  he  did  not  know 
the  truth,  Don  Lane  did  not  know  that  here  sat  almost 
the  only  woman  friend  Aurora  Lane  could  claim  in  all 
Spring  Valley.  Miss  Julia  in  fact  was  silent  partner 
in  this  very  millinery  shop — and  silent  partner  in  yet 
other  affairs  of  which  Don  Lane  was  yet  to  learn. 

This  was  a  great  day  for  Miss  Julia  as  well  as  for 
Don's  mother.  Time  and  again  these  two  women  had 
sat  in  this  very  room  and  planned  for  this  homecoming 
of  the  boy — this  boy — time  and  again  planned,  and  then 
agreed  he  must  not  come — their  son.  For — yes — they 
both  called  him  son!  If  Don  Lane,  Dieudonne  Lane, 
was  filius  nullius,  at  least  he  might  boast  two  mothers. 

How  came  this  to  pass  ?  One  would  need  to  go  back 
into  the  story  of  Miss  Julia's  life  as  well  as  that  of 

34 


TWO  MOTHERS 


Aurora  Lane.  She  had  been  lame  from  birth,  hope 
lessly  so,  disfiguringly  so.  Yet  callous  nature  had  been 
kind  to  her,  had  been  compassionate.  It  gave  to  her 
a  face  of  wondrous  sweetness,  a  heart  of  wondrous  soft 
ness  thereto.  Hopeless  and  resigned,  yet  never  pathetic 
and  never  seeking  pity,  no  living  soul  had  ever  heard 
an  unkind  or  impatient  word  from  Julia  Delafield's  lips, 
not  in  all  her  life,  even  when  she  was  a  child.  She  had 
suffered,  yes.  The  story  of  that  was  written  on  her 
face — she  knew  she  might  not  hope — and  yet  she  hoped. 

She  knew  all  the  great  romances  of  the  world,  and 
knew  likewise  more  than  the  greatest  romancer  ever 
wrote  of  women.  For  her — even  with  her  wistful  smile, 
the  sudden  flashing  of  her  wistful  eyes — there  could  be 
no  romance,  and  she  knew  that  well.  Not  for  her  was 
to  be  ever  the  love  of  man.  She  was  of  those  cruelly 
defective  in  body,  who  may  not  hope  for  any  love  worth 
having.  Surrounded  daily  by  her  friends,  her  books, 
Miss  Julia  was  an  eager  reader,  and  an  eager  lover.  She 
knew  more  of  life's  philosophy  perhaps  than  any  soul 
in  all  her  town,  and  yet  she  might  enjoy  less  of  life's 
rewards  than  any  other.  A  woman  to  the  heart,  femi 
nine  in  every  item,  flaming  with  generous  instincts,  and 
yet  denied  all  hope  of  motherhood;  a  woman  steeped 
in  philosophy  and  yet  trained  in  emotion — what  must 
she  do — what  could  she  do — she,  one  of  the  denied  ? 

What  Miss  Julia  had  done  long  years  ago  was  to  select 

35 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


as  her  best  friend  the  girl  who  of  all  in  that  heartless 
little  town  most  needed  a  friend — Aurora  Lane.  She 
knew  Aurora's  secret — in  part.  In  full  she  never  yet 
had  asked  to  know,  so  large  was  she  herself  of  heart. 
All  Spring  Valley  had  scorned  Aurora  Lane,  for  that  she 
had  no  father  for  her  child.  And — with  what  logic  or 
lack  of  logic,  who  shall  say? — Julia  Delafield  had  taken 
Aurora  Lane  close  to  her  own  heart — because  she  had 
the  child! 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  these  two  hopeless 
women,  the  one  outcast  of  society,  the  other  outcast 
of  God,  had  brought  up  that  child  between  them.  Those 
who  say  women  have  no  secrets  they  can  keep  should 
have  noted  this  strange  partnership  in  business,  in  life, 
in  maternity!  This  had  gone  on  for  twenty  years,  and 
not  a  soul  in  Spring  Valley  could  have  told  the  truth 
of  it.  Don  Lane  did  not  know  of  it  even  now. 

"Why,  Aurora,"  said  Miss  Julia  more  than  once  in 
those  early  years  to  her  friend,  "you  must  not  grieve. 
See  what  God  has  given  you — a  son! — and  such  a  son! 
How  glad,  how  proud,  how  contented  you  ought  to  be. 
You  have  a  son!  Look  at  me!" 

So  Aurora  Lane  did  look  at  Julia  Delafield.  They 
comforted  one  another.  It  was  from  Miss  Julia  that 
year  by  year,  falteringly,  she  learned  to  hope,  learned 
to  hold  up  her  head.  Thus  gradually,  by  the  aid  of 
the  love  of  another  woman — a  rare  and  beautiful  thing, 

36 


TWO  MOTHERS 


a  wondrous  thing — a  thing  so  very  rare  in  that  world 
of  jealousy  in  which  by  fate  women  so  largely  live — 
she  got  back  some  hold  on  life — she,  mother  of  the  son 
of  no  man,  at  the  urge  of  a  woman  who  could  never 
have  a  son! 

"Oh,  we  will  plan,  Aurora!"  said  Miss  Julia  in  those 
piteous  earlier  times.  "We  will  plan — we  will  get  on. 
We'll  fight  it  out  together."  And  so  they  had,  shoulder 
to  shoulder,  unnoted,  unpraised  and  unadvised,  year  by 
year ;  and  because  they  knew  she  had  at  least  one  friend, 
those  who  sat  in  judgment  on  Aurora  Lane  came  little 
by  little  to  forgive  or  to  forget  her  sin,  as  it  once  was 
called  of  all  the  pulpits  there. 

And  now  a  drunken  tongue  had  recalled  sharply,  un 
forgivably,  unescapably,  that  past  which  had  so  long 
lain  buried — a  past  to  which  neither  of  them  ever  re 
ferred. 

In  all  these  years  time  had  been  doing  what  it  could  to 
repair  what  had  been.  Time  wreathes  the  broken  tree 
with  vines  to  bind  up  its  wounds.  It  covers  the  scarred 
earth  with  grasses  presently.  In  all  these  years  some 
men  had  died,  others  had  left  the  village.  Certain  old 
women,  poisonous  of  heart,  also  had  died,  and  so  the 
better  for  all  concerned.  Other  women  mayhap  had  their 
sacrifices — and  their  secrets.  But  as  for  Aurora  Lane, 
at  least  she  had  won  and  held  one  friend.  And  so  they 
two  had  had  between  them  a  child,  a  son,  a  man.  One 

37 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


had  gathered  of  the  philosophy  of  life,  of  the  world's 
great  minds.  The  other  had  brought  into  the  partner 
ship  the  great  equipment  with  which  Nature  forever 
defies  all  law  and  all  philosophy  save  her  own. 

Now,  product  of  their  twenty  years  of  friendship,  here 
he  stood,  tall  and  strong — Don  Lane,  their  boy,  blood  on 
his  hand  because  of  that  truth  which  he  swiftly — too 
swiftly — had  declared  to  be  a  lie;  and  which  was  no 
lie  but  the  very  truth. 

But  Don  Lane  still  was  ignorant  of  the  closeness  of 
truth  of  his  last  remark.  He  only  put  such  face  now 
on  all  this  as  he  might. 

"Miss  Julia,"  said  he  lamely,  and  giving  her  in 
stinctively  the  title  which  the  town  gave  her,  "I  know  you 
have  been  good  to  my  mother." 

"Why,  no,  I  haven't,  Don,"  said  she,  "not  at  all.  I've 
been  so  busy  I  have  hardly  seen  your  mother  for  a 
month  or  so.  But  we  have  kept  track  of  you — why,  Don, 
I've  got  your  class  records,  every  one.  You  don't  know 
how  I  got  them?  Isn't  it  true,  Aurie?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  would  ever  have  done  without 
her,"  said  Aurora  Lane  slowly. 

Don  Lane  laughed  suddenly.  "Why,"  said  he,  "it's 
almost  as  if  I  had  two  mothers,  isn't  it?" 

Both  women  grew  red  now,  and  poor  Don,  knowing 
little  as  he  did,  grew  red  as  well. 

"But  what's  the  matter  with  your  hand,  Don — you've 

38 


TWO  MOTHERS 


cut  yourself!  I've  told  your  mother  she  ought  to  fix 
that  gate-latch." 

Don  looked  once  more  at  his  wounded  hand,  and 
sought  to  cover  the  blood-stain  with  his  kerchief.  He 
saw  that  Miss  Julia  had  heard  nothing  of  the  affair  of 
a  few  moments  earlier  in  the  public  square. 

"Why,  that's  nothing,"  he  mumbled. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  straightforward  nature 
of  Aurora  Lane,  and  rapidly  as  she  might  she  gave  some 
account  to  Miss  Julia  of  these  late  events.  She  told  all — 
except  the  basic  and  essential  truth.  A  sad  shame  held 
her  back  from  talking  even  before  Miss  Julia  of  the 
fact  that  her  boy  now  knew  he  was  the  child  of  shame 
itself. 

"That's  too  bad,"  said  Julia  Delafield  slowly,  gravely, 
as  she  heard  the  half  news.  "I'm  awfully  sorry — I'm 
awfully  sorry  for  your  mother,  Don.  You  fought  ?  My ! 
I  wish  I  had  been  there  to  see  it." 

Miss  Julia's  face  flushed  once  more,  indicative  of  the 
heroic  soul  which  lay  in  her  own  misshapen  body. 

"I  didn't  want  to  hit  that  fellow,"  said  Don.  "Of 
course,  they  had  no  chance,  either  of  them,  with  a  man 
who  could  box  a  bit." 

"And  you  learned  that — in  college,  Don?" 

He  only  grinned  in  reply,  and  thrust  the  wounded  hand 
into  his  pocket,  out  of  sight. 

"I'll  warrant  you,  Don,"  said  Miss  Julia,  "that  if  it 

39 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


hadn't  been  for  you  old  Tarbush,  the  town  marshal, 
never  would  have  taken  Johnnie  Adamson  to  jail.  Those 
two  were  a  public  nuisance  every  Saturday  afternoon. 
I'm  glad  you  have  ended  it.  But  tell  me,  what  made 
them  pick  on  you?" 

Don  Lane  struggled  for  a  time,  not  daring  to  look 
at  his  mother,  before  he  spoke.  "The  half-wit  wouldn't 
let  us  pass,  and  then  his  father  called  me  a  name — if 
that  man  or  any  other  ever  calls  me  that  again,  I'm 
going  to  beat  him  up  till  his  own  people  won't  know 
him.  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  went  on,  flushing. 

He  did  not  catch  the  sudden  look  which  now  passed 
between  the  two  women.  A  sudden  paleness  replaced  the 
flush  on  Miss  Julia's  cheek.  A  horror  sat  in  her  eye. 
"What  does  he  know?"  was  the  question  she  asked  of 
Aurora  Lane,  eye  only  speaking  the  query. 

"At  least,  Miss  Julia,"  said  poor  Don,  "you  somehow 
certainly  must  know  about  me.  I'll  get  all  my  debts 
squared  around  some  time.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  set 
tled  down  in  my  new  place  West — I've  got  a  fine  engi 
neering  job  out  in  Wyoming  already — I'm  going  to 
have  my  mother  come.  And  if  ever  I  get  on  in  the 
world,  there  are  some  other  things  I'm  not  going  to  for 
get.  Any  friend  of  hers "  His  big  hand,  waved 

toward  his  mother,  told  the  rest  of  what  he  could  not 
speak. 

They  sat  on,  uncomfortable,  for  a  time,  neither  of 

40 


TWO  MOTHERS 


the  three  knowing  how  much  the  others  knew,  nor  how 
much  each  ought  to  know.  Of  the  three,  Aurora  Lane 
was  most  prepared.  For  twenty  years  she  had  been 
learning  to  be  prepared.  For  twenty  years  she  had  been 
praying  that  her  boy  never  would  know  what  now  he 
did  know. 

Don  Lane  looked  at  his  mother's  face,  but  could  not 
fathom  it.  Life  to  him  thus  far  had  been  more  or 
less  made  up  of  small  things — sports,  books,  joys,  small 
things,  no  great  ponderings,  no  problems,  no  introspec 
tions,  no  self-communings — and  until  but  very  recently 
no  love,  no  great  emotion,  no  passion  to  unsettle  him. 
This  shadow  which  now  fell  over  him — he  could  not  have 
suspected  that.  But  his  mother  all  these  years  had 
known  that  perhaps  at  any  unforeseen  time  this  very 
hour  might  come — had  prayed  against  it,  but  known 
always  in  her  heart  that  it  might  come,  nay,  indeed  one 
day  must  come. 

"Damn  the  place,  anyhow!"  he  broke  out  at  length. 
"You've  lived  here  long  enough,  both  of  you.  It's  noth 
ing  but  a  little  gossiping  hell,  that's  all.  I'll  take  you 
away  from  here,  both  of  you,  that's  what  I'll  do !"  He 
stretched  out  a  hand  suddenly  to  his  mother,  who  took 
it,  stroking  it  softly. 

"Don,  boy,"  said  she,  "I  didn't  run  away.  Why  should 
we  run  away  now?  If  we  did,  we'd  take  ourselves  with 
us  wherever  we  went,  wouldn't  we?  This  is  as  good 

41 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


a  place  to  live  out  life  as  any  I  could  have  found.  You 
can't  really  evade  things,  you  know." 

"As  though  I  asked  to !  I'd  rather  fight  things  than 
evade  them." 

"I  think  so,"  said  his  mother  mournfully.  "I  sup 
pose  that's  true." 

"But  you've  got  to  be  happy,  mother,"  said  he,  again 
taking  her  hand  in  his.  "I'll  make  you  happy.  I'm  ready 
to  work  for  you  now — I'll  pay  you  back." 

"And  Miss  Julia?"  smiled  his  mother.  "It  was  she 
who  told  you  the  news,  you  know,  and  you  didn't  obey 
her — you  came  against  orders." 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  She's  been  so  awfully  good 
to  you.  I  know  what  she's  been,  be  sure  of  that."  (As 
though  he  did  know!) 

"Don't  be  too  bitter,  Don,"  said  Miss  Julia  Delafield, 
slowly  now,  hoping  only  to  salve  a  wound  she  felt  he 
might  have,  yet  not  sure  herself  what  the  wound  might 
be.  "Don't  be  unrelenting.  Why,  it  seems  to  me,  as  we 
grow  older  and  begin  to  read  and  think,  we  find  out 
the  best  of  life  is  just  being — well,  being  charitable — 
just  forgetting.  Nothing  matters  so  very  much,  Don. 
That's  doctrine,  isn't  it?" 

Don  Lane  never  finished  what  reply  he  might  have 
made.  There  came  yet  another  interruption,  yet  another 
footfall  on  the  little  walk  without,  following  the  clash 
of  the  crippled  gate  as  it  swung  to.  It  was  a  man's 

42 


TWO  MOTHERS 


footfall  which  they  heard  on  the  gallery.  They  all  rose 
now  as  Aurora  threw  open  the  door. 

It  was  the  solemn  visage  of  Joel  Tarbush,  the  town 
marshal,  which  met  Aurora  Lane. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Tarbush?"  asked  she.  "Won't 
you  come  in?" 

The  gentleman  accosted  gave  a  quick  glance  up  the 
street  and  down. 

"I'm  a  married  man,"  said  he,  with  something  of  a 
vile  grin  on  his  face  as  he  looked  at  her. 

She  answered  him  only  with  the  level  gaze  of  her 
own  eyes,  and  pushed  open  the  door.  He  followed  her 
in,  hesitatingly,  and  then  saw  the  others  in  the  little 
room. 

"Ma'am,"  said  he,  "I  come  to  summons  you  to  the 
justice  court  this  afternoon." 

"Yes,"  said  Aurora  Lane.    "Why?" 

"It's  that  Adamson  case,"  said  he— "he  knows."  He 
turned  now  to  the  tall  figure  of  Dieudonne  Lane,  in 
stinctively  stepping  back  as  he  did  so. 

"In  what  way  do  you  want  us  ?"  asked  Don  Lane  now. 
"As  witnesses?  My  mother ?" 

"I  want  your — your  ma  as  a  witness,  yes,'*  said  Tar- 
bush,  grinning,  "since  you've  said  it.  For  you,  you'll 
have  to  come  along  on  charge  of  resisting  a  officer ;  like 
wise  for  assault  and  battery,  charge  brought  by  Ephraim 
Adamson;  likewise  for  disturbing  the  peace.  Likewise 

43 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


we're  going  to  test  the  case  of  habeas  chorus.  Old  Man 
Adamson's  got  money.  He's  sober  now,  and  he's  got 
a  lawyer — the  best  lawyer  in  town.  They're  going  to 
get  the  eejit  out  of  jail,  and  Old  Man  Adamson's  go 
ing  to  make  trouble  for  you." 

How  much  longer  Tarbush  might  have  prattled  on  in 
his  double  capacity  of  officer  and  gossip  remained  un 
certain.  Miss  Julia  turned  upon  him,  her  large  dark  eyes 
flashing : 

"Why  do  you  bring  her  into  it?  She's  just  told  me — 
they  were  only  crossing  the  square — she  was  only  try 
ing  to  go  home — she  wasn't  troubling  anyone  in  all 
the  world!  Leave  her  out  of  it." 

"I  ain't  got  no  choice  in  it,"  said  Tarbush.  "I'm  serv 
ing  the  papers  now.  Miss  Lane  and  the  boy  both  conies. 
Not  that  I  got  any  feeling  in  the  matter." 

"Why  should  you  have?"  asked  Don  Lane,  with  a 
cynical  smile.  "You've  been  letting  that  ruffian  run  this 
town  every  Saturday  for  years,  they  tell  me,  and  you 
didn't  dare  call  his  bluff  till  you  saw  he  was  whipped. 
All  right,  we'll  go.  I'll  see  this  thing  through — but  I 
want  to  tell  you,  you've  started  something  that  will  be 
almighty  hard  to  stop.  You  needn't  think  I'm  going  to 
let  this  thing  drop  here." 

"Oh,  now,"  began  the  man  of  authority,  "I  wish't  you 
wouldn't  feel  thataway.  I  done  my  duty  as  I  seen  it. 
Didn't  I  take  him  to  jail?" 

44 


TWO  MOTHERS 


"Yes,  you  did,  after  I  had  turned  him  over  to  you. 
But  you  took  the  wrong  man  at  that." 

"Who  should  I  of  took?" 

"I  don't  know,"  laughed  Don  Lane  bitterly.  "All  the 
town,  I  think.  We'll  see." 

This  was  too  cryptic  for  Joel  Tarbush.  Weakly  he 
felt  in  his  pocket  for  tobacco. 

"Well,"  said  he  at  length,  "I  done  summonsed  you." 

"We  have  no  choice,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  after  a  time. 
"We'll  get  ready.  Miss  Julia,  can't  you  go  with  me  ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Julia  Delafield  quietly. 


CHAPTER  IV 
IN  OPEN  COURT 

IN  his  narrow  little  room  upstairs  in  one  of  the  two- 
story  brick  buildings  which  framed  the  public  square 
of  Spring  Valley  sat  J.  B.  Blackman,  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  upholder  of  the  majesty  of  the  law.  His  throne 
was  a  knock-kneed,  broken  chair.  In  front  of  him  stood 
a  large  scarred  table,  whereon  rested  the  equipment  of 
well-thumbed  tomes  which  bolstered  him  in  his  admin 
istration  of  justice.  In  the  room  beyond  stood  a  few 
scattered  chairs,  a  long  bench  or  two.  On  one  wall,  by 
way  of  ornament,  was  a  steel  engraving  of  Daniel  Web 
ster.  On  the  opposite  wall  hung  certain  lithographs  of 
political  candidates  of  like  party  persuasion  with  Black 
man  himself,  for  this  was  a  presidential  year,  and  cer 
tain  crises  of  political  sort  existed,  among  others  the 
choosing  of  a  Senator  of  the  United  States.  Among 
lesser  likenesses  on  Blackman's  grimy  wall  loomed  large 
the  portrait  of  his  party's  candidate,  to  wit:  the  Hon 
orable  William  Henderson,  late  County  Attorney,  late 
District  Judge,  late  member  of  the  Legislature,  late  can 
didate  for  Governor,  late  Chairman  of  the  State  Republi 
can  Committee ;  and  by  virtue  of  the  death  of  the  late  in- 

46 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


cumbent  in  the  office  of  United  States  senator,  himself 
now  present  candidate  for  that  lofty  honor.  Otherwise 
than  as  to  these  purposeful  decorations  the  room  had 
small  adornment  and  appeared  judicially  austere. 

The  hour  was  mid-afternoon,  but  so  swiftly  had  the 
news  of  recent  events  spread  abroad  in  the  little  village 
that  already  the  room  of  Justice  of  Peace  Blackman  was 
packed.  Aurora  Lane's  baby — why,  she  had  fooled 
everybody — her  boy  never  had  died  at  all — here  he  was 
— he  had  been  through  college — he'd  been  somewhere 
all  the  time  and  now  he  had  come  to  life  all  at  once, 
and  had  fought  Eph  Adamson  and  the  eejit,  and  had 
been  arrested  and  was  going  to  be  tried.  Naturally,  the 
stair  leading  to  the  Justice's  office  was  lined,  and  sundry 
citizens  were  grouped  about  the  bottom  or  under  the 
adjacent  awnings. 

Much  speculation  existed  as  to  the  exact  issue  of  the 
legal  proceedings  which,  it  seemed,  had  been  instituted 
by  old  Eph  Adamson.  When  that  worthy  appeared,  es 
corted  by  the  clerk  of  Judge  Henderson's  law  office, 
room  respectfully  was  made  for  the  two,  it  being  taken 
for  granted  that  Judge  Henderson  would  appear  for 
Adamson,  as  he  always  had  in  earlier  embroglios.  Much 
greater  excitement  prevailed  when  presently  there  came 
none  less  than  Tarbush,  city  marshal,  followed  by  Don 
Lane  and  the  two  women.  Then  indeed  all  Spring  Val 
ley  well-nigh  choked  of  its  own  unsated  curiosity. 

47 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


They  walked  steadily,  these  three,  staring  ahead,  fol 
lowing  close  after  the  marshal,  who  now  officiously  or 
dered  room  for  himself  and  his  charges.  When  they 
entered  Blackman's  court  that  worthy  looked  up,  coughed 
solemnly,  and  resumed  his  occupation  of  poring  over 
the  legal  authorities  spread  before  him  on  the  table.  Don 
Lane  made  room  for  his  mother  and  Miss  Julia,  and  took 
his  own  place  at  the  side  of  the  marshal.  The  latter 
laid  his  hand  upon  his  arm,  as  if  to  show  the  assembled 
multitude  that  he  had  no  fear  of  his  prisoner.  Don 
shook  off  the  hand  impatiently. 

Outside,  unable  to  restrain  themselves  sufficiently  to 
be  seated  within  the  room,  old  Kneebone  and  his  friend 
Craybill  walked  up  and  down  in  the  narrow  hall — lined 
with  signs  of  attorneys,  real  estate  men,  and  insurance 
agents — from  which  made  off  the  door  of  Blackman's 
office. 

"They'll  bind  him  over,"  said  old  Silas  to  his  friend. 
"They'll  do  that  shore." 

"Bind  who  over,  Silas,"  said  Craybill.  "You  mean 
Old  Man  Adamson  and  his  eejit,  don't  you?  The  eejit's 
arrested,  anyhow.  But  what's  it  all  about?  You  don't 
believe  it's  true  this  here  is  'Rory's  son,  now  do  you? 
How  can  that  come?" 

"Well,  I  ain't  saying,"  replied  old  Silas  cryptically, 
and  nodding  only  in  the  general  direction  of  the  door, 
"but  you'll  see." 

48 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


Old  Aaron  helped  himself  to  a  chew  of  tobacco 
thoughtfully.  "They  say  Old  Eph  has  got  his  dander 
up  now,  and's  going  to  make  plenty  of  trouble  all  along 
the  line.  Reckon  he's  ashamed  of  his  son  being  licked 
thataway  by  just  a  kid  like  this.  Come  to  think  of  it, 
it  looks  like  Eph  ain't  got  much  glory  out  of  it  so  far, 
has  he?" 

"No,  and  I'll  bet  he  had  to  dig  up  some  money — 
the  Judge,  he  likely  wouldn't  think  of  it  for  less'n  fif 
teen  dollars  anyways.  That's  the  price  of  a  good  shoat 
these  days.  If  the  case  was  appealed,  or  if  it  got  into 
a  court  of  nisy  prisus,  or  maybe  get  over  into  another 
county  on  a  change  of  venoo,  you  can  bet  Judge  Hen 
derson  wouldn't  be  doing  none  of  them  things  for  noth 
ing,  neither.  The  law's  all  right  for  them  that  has  plenty 
of  money.  Sometimes  I  think  there's  other  ways." 

"Huh,"  said  his  companion,  "old  Adamson  tried  the 
other  way,  didn't  he?  Now  look  at  him!  If  I  was  Old 
Man  Adamson,  or  if  I  was  his  eejit  son  either,  the  best 
thing  we  could  do,  seems  to  me,  would  be  to  get  out 
of  town.  This  here  boy's  a  fighter,  if  I'm  any  judge. 
Wonder  if  it  is  her  boy !  If  it  is,  whoever  was  his  fa 
ther,  huh  ?  And  how  was  he  kep'  hid  for  more'n  twenty 
year?" 

"He  looks  sort  of  changed  since  a  couple  of  hours 
ago,"  said  his  friend  judicially.  "He's  quieter  now — 
why,  when  he  come  into  town  he  was  just  laughing 

49 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


and  talking  like  a  kid.  Of  course,  he  must  have  knew — 
he  knows  who  his  father  is  all  right.  Now,  come  to 
think  of  it,  if  this  here  boy  had  any  money  he  could 
sue  them  Adamsons  for  deefamation  of  character." 

"How  comes  it  he  could  ?  I  hear  say  that  all  Old  Man 
Adamson  said  was  to  call  him  nobody's  son,  and  that's 
true  enough,  if  he's  her  boy.  If  you  call  the  truth  to 
a  man,  that  ain't  no  deefamation  of  character.  As  to 
'Rory  Lane,  everybody  knows  the  truth  about  her.  You 
can't  deefame  a  woman  nohow,  least  of  all  her.  We 
all  know  she  had  a  baby  when  she  was  a  girl,  and  it  was 
sent  away,  and  it  died.  Leastways,  we  thought  we  knew. 
I  ain't  right  shore  what  we've  knew.  It  looks  like  that 
woman  had  put  up  some  sort  of  game  on  this  town. 
What  right  had  she  to  do  that?" 

"She  was  right  white,"  said  the  other,  somewhat  ir 
relevantly.  "Never  seen  no  one  no  whiter  than  she  was 
when  she  went  in  that  door  right  now." 

"I  don't  reckon  we  can  get  no  seats  any  more — the 
room's  plumb  full." 

They  both  were  looking  wistfully  in  at  the  packed 
assembly,  when  they  had  occasion  to  make  room  for 
the  dignified  figure  of  a  man  who  now  pushed  his  way 
through  the  throng. 

"How  do,  Judge  Henderson,"  said  old  Silas  Knee- 
bone,  who  knew  everybody. 

The  newcomer  nodded  somewhat  coldly.  He  nodded 

50 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


also,  none  too  warmly,  to  another  man  who  stood  near 
the  door — a  tall  man,  of  loose  and  bulky  figure,  with 
a  fringe  of  red  beard  under  his  chin,  a  wide  and  smil 
ing  mouth,  blue  eyes,  and  a  broad  face  which  showed 
shrewdness  and  humor  alike. 

"How  are  you,  Hod?"  said  Henderson  carelessly; 
thus  accosting  the  only  man  at  the  Spring  Valley  bar 
for  whom  really  he  had  much  respect  or  fear — Horace 
Brooks,  popularly  known  in  Spring  Valley  as  "old  Hod 
Brooks,"  perhaps  the  most  carelessly  dressed  man  physi 
cally  and  the  most  exactly  appointed  man  mentally  then 
practising  before  that  bar.  A  little  sign  far  down  the 
narrow  hall  betokened  that  the  office  of  Horace  Brooks 
might  thereabouts  be  found  by  any  in  search  of  counsel 
in  the  law. 

"Oh,  are  you  retained  in  this  case,  Hod  ?"  Judge  Hen- 
denson  spoke  over  his  shoulder. 

"Not  at  all,  Judge,  not  at  all,"  said  the  other.  None 
the  less  he  himself  followed  on  into  the  crowded  little 
room. 

As  Judge  Henderson  entered  all  eyes  were  turned 
upon  him.  Conscious  of  the  fact  that  he  honored  this 
assemblage,  he  comported  himself  with  dignity  proper 
for  a  candidate.  He  was  a  man  well  used  to  success 
in  any  undertaking,  and  he  looked  his  part  now.  The 
full,  florid  face,  the  broad  brow,  sloping  back  to  a  ridge 
of  iron-gray  hair,  the  full  blue  eyes,  the  loose,  easy 

51 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


lips,  the  curved  chin,  the  large,  white  hands,  the  full 
chest,  the  soft  body,  the  reddening  skin  of  the  face — 
all  of  these  offered  good  index  to  the  character  of  Wil 
liam  Henderson.  Lawyer,  judge,  politician  and  leading 
citizen — he  was  the  type  of  these  things,  the  village 
Caesar,  and  knew  well  enough  the  tribute  due  to  Caesar. 

A  few  eyes  turned  from  the  adequate  figure  of  Judge 
Henderson  to  the  loose  and  shambling  form  of  the  man 
who  edged  in  to  the  front  of  the  table.  Rumor  had 
it  that  in  the  early  times,  twenty  years  or  more  ago, 
Judge  Henderson  had  come  to  that  city  with  a  single 
law  book  under  his  arm  as  his  sole  capital  in  his  pro 
fession.  Old  Hod  Brooks  had  made  his  own  advent  in 
precisely  similar  fashion,  belated  much  in  life  by  reason 
of  his  having  to  work  his  way  through  school.  Since 
then  his  life  had  been  one  steady  combat,  mostly  arrayed 
against  Henderson  himself.  Perhaps  it  might  have  been 
said  that  they  two  from  the  first  were  rivals  for  the 
leading  place  at  the  local  bar,  little  as  Henderson  himself 
now  cared  for  that.  He  was  well  intrenched,  and  all 
opponents,  such  as  this  shambling  giant  with  the  red 
beard  and  nondescript  carriage,  must  attack  in  the  open. 

Judge  Blackman  coughed  ominously  once  more.  "Or 
der  in  the  court!"  he  intoned,  pounding  on  the  table 
in  front  of  him. 

There  was  a  general  shuffling  and  scraping  of  chairs. 
Those  standing  seated  themselves  so  far  as  was  possible. 

52 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


Judge  Henderson  alone  stood  for  a  time  in  front  of 
the  table  of  Justice  Blackman.  The  afternoon  was  very- 
warm,  but  he  represented  the  full  traditions  of  his  pro 
fession,  for  he  appeared  in  long  black  coat,  white  waist 
coat,  and  folded  collar,  tied  with  a  narrow  white  tie. 
In  some  way  he  had  the  appearance  of  always  being 
freshly  laundered.  His  fresh  pink  cheeks  were  smooth 
and  clean,  his  hands  were  immaculate  as  his  linen.  One 
might  have  said  that  at  one  time  in  his  life  he  had  been 
a  handsome  man,  a  fine  young  man  in  his  earlier  days, 
and  that  he  still  was  "well  preserved." 

Not  so  much  might  have  been  said  of  old  Hod 
Brooks,  who  had  slumped  into  a  seat  close  to  Tarbush 
and  his  prisoner.  That  worthy  wore  an  alpaca  coat, 
a  pair  of  trousers  which  shrieked  of  the  Golden  Eagle 
Clothing  Store,  no  waistcoat  at  all,  and  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  no  collar  at  all,  beyond  a  limp  strip  of  wilted 
linen  decorated  by  no  cravat  whatever. 

As  he  sat  now  Brooks  suddenly  cast  a  keen,  curious 
gaze  upon  the  face  of  the  young  defendant  who  sat 
at  the  left  of  the  city  marshal — a  gaze  which,  passing 
at  length,  rested  steadily,  intently,  on  the  face  of  Aurora 
Lane,  who  sat,  icy  pale,  staring  straight  in  front  of 
her.  Her  left  hand  lay  in  that  of  Miss  Julia  Delafield. 
The  eyes  of  the  latter — whose  face  was  flushed,  as 
was  usual  with  her  in  any  time  of  mental  emotion — re 
mained  fixed  upon  the  man  who  was  to  prosecute 

53 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


this  boy,  whose  life  was  linked  so  closely  with  her 
own. 

The  great  lawyer  seemed  not  to  see  these  women 
at  all,  and  at  first  cast  no  glance  whatever  at  the  de 
fendant.  The  whole  thing  was  rather  trivial  for  him; 
for  although  his  fee  really  had  been  five  hundred  dollars 
— in  form  of  a  note  from  Ephraim  Adamson  secured 
by  a  certain  mortgage  on  certain  live  stock — he  knew 
well  enough  he  honored  Adamson  and  this  court  by 
appearing  here  in  a  mere  Justice  trial. 

"Order  in  the  court !"  said  Blackman  once  more.  "The 
case  coming  on  for  trial  is  City  of  Spring  Valley  on  the 
complaint  of  Ephraim  Adamson  against  Dewdonny 
Lane."  At  this  bold  declaration  of  what  had  been  a  half 
credited  secret  to  Spring  Valley,  all  Spring  Valley  now 
straightened  and  sat  up,  expectant.  A  sort  of  sigh,  half 
a  murmur  of  intense  curiosity  went  over  the  audience. 
It  was  indeed  a  great  day  for  Spring  Valley.  "Lane — 
Dewdonny  Lane."  So  he  was  the  son  of  Aurora  Lane 
— and  had  no  family  name  for  his  own ! 

Justice  Blackman  paused  and  looked  inquiringly  at 
the  battered  visage  of  old  Eph  Adamson.  He  coughed 
hesitatingly.  "I  understand  this  case  is  one  of  assault 
and  battery.  I  believe,  Judge  Henderson,  that  you  rep 
resent  the  plaintiff  in  this  case?" 

"Yes,  your  Honor,"  said  Judge  Henderson  slowly, 
turning  his  full  eye  upon  the  court  from  its  late  resting 

54 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


place  upon  the  campaign  portrait  of  himself  as  it  ap 
peared  on  the  wall.  "I  have  consented  to  be  of  such 
service  as  I  may  in  the  case.  Mr.  Ephraim  Adamson, 
our  well-known  friend  here,  is  ready  for  the  trial  of  the 
cause  now,  as  I  understand.  I  may  say  further,  you-r 
Honor,  that  there  will  be  a  writ  of  habeas  corpus  sued 
out  in  due  course  demanding  the  body  of  the  son  of 
Ephraim  Adamson,  who  is  wrongfully  restrained  of  his 
liberty  at  present  in  our  city  jail. 

"As  for  this  defendant "  Judge  Henderson  turned 

and  cast  an  insolently  inquiring  eye  upon  the  young  man 
at  the  side  of  the  town  marshal. 

"Who  appears  for  the  defendant?"  demanded  Judge 
Blackman  austerely,  casting  a  glance  upon  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar. 

Don  Lane  arose,  helf  hesitatingly.  "Your  Honor," 
said  he,  "I  presume  I  am  the  defendant  in  this  case, 
although  I  hardly  know  what  it's  all  about.  I  haven't 
any  lawyer — I  don't  know  anybody  here — I'm  just  in 
town.  All  this  has  come  on  me  very  suddenly,  and  I 
haven't  had  time  to  look  around.  I  don't  see  how  I  am 
guilty  of  anything " 

Just  then  arose  the  soft  and  kindly  tones  of  a  large 
voice  which  easily  filled  all  the  room.  Old  Hod  Brooks 
half  rose. 

"Your  Honor,"  said  he,  "it  isn't  customary  for  a  mem 
ber  of  the  bar  to  offer  his  services  unsolicited.  I  would 

55 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


say,  however,  that  if  the  Court  desires  to  appoint  me 
as  counsel  for  this  young  man  I  will  do  the  best  I  can 
for  him,  since  he  seems  a  stranger  here  and  unprepared 
for  a  defense  at  law.  If  there  were  any  other  younger 
lawyer  here  I  would  not  suggest  this  course  to  your 
Honor — indeed,  I  have  no  right  to  do  so  now.  I  trust, 
however," — and  he  smiled  at  Judge  Henderson  at  the 
other  end  of  the  table — "that  my  learned  brother  will 
not  accuse  me  of  champerty,  maintenance,  or  any  other 
offense  against  my  office  as  a  servant  of  justice  in  this 
community.  Of  course,  I  may  add,  your  Honor" — he 
turned  to  Justice  Blackman  again — "that  in  such  circum 
stances  my  own  services,  such  as  they  are,  would  be  ren 
dered  entirely  free  of  charge." 

People  wondered,  turning  curious  looks  on  the  big, 
gaunt  speaker  thus  suddenly  offering  himself  as  cham 
pion  in  a  role  evidently  unpopular. 

Justice  Blackman  hesitated,  and  cast  again  a  glance  of 
query  at  Judge  Henderson,  on  whom  he  much  relied 
in  all  decisions.  The  latter  waved  a  hand  of  impa 
tient  assent,  and  began  to  whisper  with  his  clerk. 

"The  Court  will  allow  this  procedure,"  said  Justice 
Blackman.  "Does  the  defendant  accept  Mr.  Brooks  as 
counsel  ?" 

Don  Lane,  embarrassed  and  somewhat  red  of  face, 
half  rose  again,  meeting  full  the  fascinated,  absorbed 
look  on  the  face  of  Hod  Brooks — a  look  which  the  keen 

56 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


eye  of  Henderson  also  saw.  He  -puckered  a  lip  and 
frowned  estimatingly.  Rumor  said  that  Old  Hod  Brooks 
was  going  to  come  out  as  candidate  for  U.  S.  Senator 
on  the  opposing  ticket.  Henderson  began  now  to  specu 
late  as  to  what  he  could  do  with  Hod  Brooks,  if  ever 
they  should  meet  on  the  hustings.  He  studied  him  now 
as  a  boxer,  none  too  certain  of  himself,  studies  his  an 
tagonist  when  he  strips  and  goes  to  his  corner  opposite 
in  the  ring. 

"Your  Honor,"  said  Don,  "I  don't  know  this  gentle 
man,  but  what  he  says  seems  to  me  most  kind.  I  surely 
shall  be  glad  to  have  his  assistance  now."  He  did  not 
look  at  his  mother's  face,  did  not  see  the  quick  look 
with  which  Hod  Brooks  turned  from  him  to  her. 

"Does  my  learned  brother  require  time  for  prepara 
tion  of  his  case?"  inquired  Judge  Henderson  sarcasti 
cally.  ."I  will  agree  to  a  brief  recess  of  the  Court 
in  such  case." 

"Oh,  not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  Old  Hod  Brooks. 
"I  know  all  about  this  case,  better  than  my  learned 
brother  does.  Not  having  any  special  interest  in  any 
thing  but  this  case — that  is  to  say,  not  any  alien  in 
terest,  political  or  otherwise — I  am  ready  to  go  to  trial 
right  now  to  defend  this  young  man.  If  Judge  Hender 
son  will  move  his  chair  so  he  can  get  a  better  look  at  his 
own  picture  on  the  wall,  I  don't  see  but  what  we  might 
as  well  begin  the  trial." 

57 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Certain  smiles  passed  over  the  faces  of  a  few  in 
the  audience  as  they  saw  the  quick  flush  spring  to  the 
face  of  Judge  Henderson.  The  chief  delight  in  life 
of  Old  Hod  Brooks  was  to  bait  his  learned  brother  by 
some  such  jibes  as  this,  whenever  the  fortunes  of  the 
law  brought  them  together  on  opposing  sides. 

Judge  Henderson  coughed.  "Your  Honor,"  said  he 
hastily,  "I  am  glad  that  in  the  course  of  justice  this 
young  man  has  secured  counsel — even  counsel  such  as 
that  of  my  learned  brother — who  also,  I  am  informed, 
is  not  beyond  aspirations  of  a  political  nature.  I  have 
no  time  for  idle  jests.  If  the  defense  is  ready  I  may 
perhaps  state  briefly  what  we  propose  to  prove." 

"By  criminy!"  whispered  Silas  to  Aaron  at  the  hall 
door,  peering  in.  "By  criminy !  I  believe  Old  Hod's  got 
him  rattled  right  now!" 

But  Judge  Henderson  pulled  himself  together.  He 
now  assumed  his  regular  oratorical  position,  an  eye  upon 
his  audience. 

"Your  Honor,"  he  said,  "this  case  is  very  plain  and 
simple.  The  quiet  of  our  city  has  been  violated  by  this 
young  man,  who  has  publicly  assaulted  one  of  our  best- 
known  citizens." 

"Which  one  do  you  mean?"  interrupted  Hod  Brooks, 
most  unethically,  and  smiling  behind  his  hand.  "Which 
do  you  mean,  the  old  drunkard  or  the  young  idiot?" 

"Order    in    the    court!"    rapped    Blackman,    as    still 

58 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


further  smiles  and  shufflings  became  apparent  at  the  rear 
of  the  room.  Judge  Henderson  went  on,  flushing  yet 
more. 

"My  client,  your  Honor,"  he  said,  "was  standing 
peacefully  in  the  public  square,  accompanied  by  his  son. 
They  were  beaten  up,  both  of  them,  by  this  young  man 
who  has  been  brought  into  this  court  by  our  properly 
constituted  officer  of  the  law.  Without  any  provoca 
tion  whatever,  this  defendant  inflicted  great  personal 
injury  upon  my  client." 

"We  will  make  Eph's  face  'Exhibit  A/  and  let  it  go 
into  evidence,"  smiled  Hod  Brooks  amicably;  and  the 
audience  smiled  and  shuffled  yet  more. 

"As  to  the  unlawful  detention  of  the  son  of  my  client," 
resumed  Judge  Henderson,  beet-red  now,  "we  have 
chosen  the  remedy  of  habeas  corpus  rather  than  a  sim 
ple  discharge,  because  we  wish  to  bring  before  our  people 
the  full  enormity  of  the  offense  which  has  been  com 
mitted  here  in  the  public  view,  actually  upon  the  grounds 
of  our  temple  of  justice.  We  shall  show " 

"Your  Honor,"  interrupted  old  Hod  Brooks  at  this 
point,  half  rising,  "if  this  were  a  political  gathering  in 
deed,  and  not  the  trial  of  a  cause  in  a  justice  court,  I 
would  rise  to  a  point  of  order.  As  it  is,  I  rise-  to  a 
point  of  law." 

"State  your  point,"  said  Justice  Blackman. 

"We  are  trying,  as  I  understand  it,  the  case  of  this 

59 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


defendant,  Dewdonny  Lane,  accused  by  this  plaintiff, 
Ephraim  Adamson,  of  assault  and  battery?" 

Justice  Blackman  nodded  gravely. 

"Then  why  does  my  learned  brother  speak  of  habeas 
corpus  in  this  case,  and  what  is  the  case  which  he  is 
trying,  or  thinks  he  is  trying?  What  is  his  evidence 
going  to  be  ?  And  why  does  he  not  get  on  ?" 

"Your  Honor/'  blazed  Henderson,  "I  shall  not  endure 
this  sort  of  thing." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,  my  learned  brother,"  said  Hod 
Brooks,  still  smiling  gently.  If  Henderson  had  other 
resources,  he  needed  them  now,  for  keenly  enough  he 
sensed  himself  as  slipping  in  this  battle  of  wits  before 
assembled  electors;  and  it  really  was  politics  alone  that 
had  brought  him  here — he  scented  a  crowd  afar  off.  He 
now  lost  his  temper  utterly. 

"If  the  Court  will  excuse  us  for  a  brief  moment  of 
recess,"  said  he  savagely,  "I  should  like  to  ask  the  privi 
lege  of  a  brief  personal  consultation  with  the  attorney 
for  the  defense.  If  he  will  retire  with  me  for  just  a 
moment  I'll  make  him  eat  his  words!  After  that  we 
can  better  shape  these  proceedings." 

The  blue  eye  that  Hod  Brooks  turned  upon  his  oppo 
nent  was  calmly  inquiring,  but  wholly  fearless.  On  the 
other  hand,  some  sudden  idea  seemed  to  strike  him  now. 
He  resolved  to  change  his  tactics.  He  was  shrewd 
enough  to  know  that,  irritated  beyond  a  certain  point, 

60 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


Henderson  would  fight  his  case  hard;  and  Hod  Brooks 
did  not  want  to  lose  this  case. 

Henderson,  with  a  little  wave  of  the  hand,  his  face 
livid  in  anger,  edged  away  from  the  table  of  the  Justice 
of  the  Peace.  Hod  Brooks  followed  him  out  into  the 
hall. 

"Order  in  the  court!"  intoned  the  Justice  yet  again. 
There  was  a  rush  toward  the  door.  "There  now,  go 
back,  men,"  said  Hod  Brooks,  raising  a  hand.  "There's 
not  going  to  be  any  fight.  Let  us  two  alone — we  want 
to  talk,  that's  all." 

Don  Lane  looked  steadily  at  the  face  of  Justice  Black- 
man.  Aurora  Lane  stared  ahead,  still  icy  pate,  her  hand 
clasped  in  that  of  Miss  Julia's.  She  felt,  rather  than 
saw,  the  gazes  of  all  these  others  boring  into  her  very 
soul.  Here  were  her  enemies — here  in  what  had  been  her 
home.  It  seemed  an  hour  to  her  before  at  length  those 
standing  about  the  door  shuffled  apart  to  allow  the  two 
forensic  enemies  to  reenter,  though  really  it  had  not 
been  above  ten  minutes.  Neither  man  bore  any  traces  of 
personal  combat.  The  face  of  Judge  Henderson  was  a 
shade  triumphant — strangely  enough,  since  now  he  was 
to  admit  his  own  defeat. 

"I  tell  you,  I  heard  the  whole  business,"  said  old  Silas 
later  on  to  his  crony,  who  owned  to  a  certain  defect 
in  one  ear  in  hot  weather  such  as  this.  "I  heard  the 

61 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


whole  business.  There  wasn't  no  fight  at  all — not  that 
neither  of  them  seemed  a  bit  a-scared.  Hod,  he  raises 
a  hand,  and  that  made  the  Judge  slow  down. 

"  'It's  what  you  might  expect,  Judge,'  says  Hod,  for 
appearing  in  a  measly  little  justice  court  case.'  He's  got 
a  mighty  nasty  way  of  smiling,  Hod  has.  But  scared? 
No.  Not  none. 

"  'I'll  fight  this  case  as  long  as  you  like/  says  the 
Judge,  'and  I'll  win  it,  too.' 

"  'Maybe,  maybe,  Judge/  says  Hod.  'But  they's  more 
ways  than  one  of  skinning  a  cat.  Suppose  you  do  win 
it,  what've  you  won?  It's  all  plumb  wrong  anyhow, 
and  it  orto  be  stopped.  These  people  all  orto  go  on 
home/ 

"  'So  you  want  to  try  the  case  here, ,  huh  ?'  says  the 
Judge ;  and  says  Hod : 

"  'That's  just  what  I  do.  I  mean  I  don't  want  to  try 
it  none  at  all.  I've  got  various  reasons,  beside,  why  I 
don't  want  to  try  this  case,  or  have  it  tried.  Are  you 
a  good  guesser?'  I  didn't  know  what  he  meant  by  that. 

"  'What're  you  getting  at  ?'  says  the  Judge.  'I  know 
you've  got  something  hid.  There's  a  sleeper  in  here 
somewheres/ 

"  'Well,  let  it  stay  hid/  says  Hod.  'But  one  thing  is 
sure,  you  ain't  hiding  it  none  that  you're  out  for 
Senator?' 

"  'Why  should  I  ?    I'll  win  it,  too/  says  the  Judge. 

62 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


"  'Maybe,  maybe/  says  Hod.  'All  I  was  going  to  say 
was,  maybe  you'd  like  to  have  me  help  you,  say  left- 
handed,  thataway?  Even  left-handed  help  is  some  good.' 

"  'What  do  you  mean,  Hod  ?'  says  he.  'They  tell  me 
you're  mentioned  strong  for  the  other  ticket  and  are 
out  after  the  place  your  own  self?'  He  takes  a  kind 
of  look-over  at  Hod,  no  collar  nor  nothing,  and  that 
sleazy  coat  of  his'n. 

"  'That's  so/  says  Hod.  'I've  got  a  chance  anyhow. 
Even  every  bad-chance  candidate  out  of  your  way  is  so 
much  to  the  candy  for  you,  Judge,  ain't  it  so?'  says  he. 

"  'Say  now,  you  don't  mean  you'd  talk  of  withdraw 
ing?'  Judge  Henderson  he  was  all  lit  up  when  he  says 
this.  'On  what  terms?'  says  he.  'Of  course,  there's 
terms  of  some  sort/ 

"  'Easiest  terms  in  the  world/  says  Hod — though  I 
don't  think  it  was  easy  for  him  to  say  it,  for  he's  got 
as  good  a  chance  as  the  Judge,  like  enough.  But  he 
says,  'Easiest  sort  of  terms/  and  laughs. 

"  'Talk  fast/  says  the  Judge. 

"  'Dismiss  this  suit — withdraw  from  this  case — and 
I'll  withdraw  from  all  candidacy  on  any  ticket!  That 
goes!'  He  said  it  savage. 

"  'Do  you  mean  it  ?'  says  the  Judge,  and  Hod  he  says 
he  does.  'I've  got  reasons  for  not  wanting  this  case  to 
go  on/  says  he.  "It's  politics  brought  you  here,  Judge, 
and  I  know  that,  but  it's  mighty  good  politics  you'll  be 

63 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


playing  not  never  to  try  this  case  at  all.  Drop  it,  Judge. 
Politics  against  politics;  you  win.  Lawyer  against  law 
yer,  /  win.  But  I  pay  the  biggest  price,  and  you  know 
it  mighty  well,  even  if  you're  a  poor  guesser  why  I'm 
doing  this.  Since  you're  getting  all  the  best  of  the  bar 
gain,  is  it  a  bargain,  then?' 

"Henderson  he  thinks  for  a  while,  and  says  he  at  last, 
'Anyhow,  I  never  knew  you  to  break  your  word,'  says  he. 

"  'No/  says  Hod,  simple,  'I  don't  do  that.' 

"  'I'll  go  you !'  says  the  Judge,  sudden,  and  he  sticks 
out  his  hand.  'I  shake  politically,  Judge,'  says  Hod. 
'No  more;  but  it's  enough.  We  don't  neither  of  us  need 
explain  no  more.'  And  damn  me!  If  they  didn't  quit 
right  there,  where  it  seemed  to  me  a  whole  lot  of  ex 
plaining  what  they  meant  'd  a-ben  a  right  good  thing  for 
me  anyways,  for  I  couldn't  gether  what  it  was  all  about. 

"But  I  heard  the  whole  business — and  there  wasn't 
no  fight,  nor  nothing,  just  only  that  talk  like  I  said,  and 
I  don't  know  nothing  of  why  they  done  it,  I  only  know 
what  they  done.  That's  why  there  wasn't  no  fight,  no 
trial  after  all — and  us  setting  there  that  long!  I  want 
to  say,  some  things  is  beginning  to  look  mighty  mys 
terious  to  me.  But  I  ain't  saying  what  I  think.  You'll 


Hod  Brooks  was  first  to  address  the  court.    He  stood, 
a  tall  and  hulking  figure,  one  hand  upon  the  shoulder 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


of  Dieudonne  Lane — stood  in  such  fashion  as  in  part 
to  shield  Don's  mother  from  the  gaze  alike  of  court  and 
audience. 

"Your  Honor,"  said  he,  and  his  face  now  was  very 
grave;  "I  assume  the  Court  has  been  in  recess.  After 
conference  with  my  learned  brother  I  believe  that  he 
has  some  statement  to  make  to  the  Court." 

He  turned  now  toward  Henderson,  who  straightened 
up. 

"May  it  please  the  Court/'  he  began,  "I  find  it  in 
cumbent  upon  me  to  withdraw  as  counsel  in  this  case. 
My  learned  brother  has  lived  up  to  the  full  traditions  of 
courtesy  in  our  profession,  but  I  will  only  say  that  I 
have  learned  certain  facts  which  render  it  impossible 
for  me  to  represent  this  client  properly  in  this  cause. 
There  would  seem  to  have  been  certain  justifying  cir 
cumstances,  not  at  first  put  before  me,  which  leave  me 
more  reluctant  to  prosecute  this  defendant.  I  shall 
counsel  my  client  to  withdraw  his  suit." 

Blackman  in  his  surprise  scarcely  heard  the  deep  voice 
of  Don  Lane's  attorney  as  he  spoke  in  turn. 

"May  it  please  the  Court,"  said  he  gently,  "it  is  the 
best  function  of  an  attorney  to  counsel  restraint  and 
moderation;  it  is  most  honorable  of  any  great  counsel 
to  decline  any  case  which  does  not  enlist  his  full  con 
victions.  It  is  the  duty  of  all  of  us  to  uphold  the  actual 
peace  and  actual  dignity  of  this  community.  I  have 

65 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


never  entertained  a  fuller  respect  for  my  learned  brother 
than  I  have  at  this  moment.  I  withdraw  what  I  said 
about  his  portrait  yonder — and  may  say  I  do  not  blame 
any  man  for  being  well  content  even  in  the  offer  of  an 
honor  which  I  cannot  and  do  not  contemplate  for  my 
self — the  great  honor  of  the  candidacy  for  the  Senate  of 
the  United  States.  It  is  my  own  function,  none  the  less, 
to  state  that  there  is  no  cause  why  my  client  should  be 
longer  detained.  He  and  others,  these  witnesses,  are 
virtually  restrained  of  their  liberty.  I  therefore  move 
the  dismissal  of  this  case.  I  think  these  people  all  ought 
to  go  home.  I  further  suggest  that  this  court  adjourn — 
if  this  latter  suggestion  be  fully  within  my  own  prov 
ince." 

He  turned  an  inquiring  gaze  upon  Tarbush,  city  mar 
shal,  who  by  this  time  had  fairly  sunken  down  into  the 
depths  of  his  coat  collar. 

"How  about  the  plaintiff?"  said  Blackman,  turning  a 
hesitating  glance  upon  Judge  Henderson,  who  seemed 
much  relieved  by  what  his  opponent  in  fact  and  in  posse 
had  said. 

"There  is  other  counsel  for  him,"  said  Judge  Hender 
son,  "but  if  he  will  take  my  own  advice,  he  will  drop  the 
case  now  and  at  this  point." 

"What  does  the  plaintiff  say?"  Blackman  bent  an  in 
quiring  gaze  on  the  battered  visage  of  Ephraim  Adam- 
son.  The  latter  lifted  up  a  swollen  eyelid  with  thumb 

66 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


and  finger,  and  turned  a  still  confused  gaze  upon  court 
and  counsel.  His  reply,  crestfallen  though  it  was, 
brought  a  titter  from  the  audience. 

"I  guess  I'm  satisfied,"  said  he. 

Blackman  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  and  then  back 
to  the  faces  of  the  disappointed  audience  of  the  citizens 
of  Spring  Valley. 

"Order  in  the  court!"  exclaimed  Blackman,  J.  P., 
fiercely.  "This  court  is  adjourned!"  He  spoke  with  a 
certain  disgust,  as  of  one  aware  of  participation  in  a 
fiasco. 

With  a  rush  and  a  surge  the  room  began  to  empty. 
Judge  Henderson  departed,  well  in  advance,  looking 
straight  ahead,  and  acknowledging  none  of  the  greetings 
which  met  him.  He  evidently  was  above  such  work, 
even  disgusted  with  the  whole  affair.  Hod  Brooks  re 
mained,  his  curious  glance  still  riveted  on  Don  Lane. 

Don  stood  hesitating  before  the  table  of  justice.  He 
had  not  known  before  that  his  burly  counsel  had  any  ac 
quaintance  with  his  mother,  but  he  saw  plainly  the  glance 
of  recognition  which  passed  between  them. 

Aurora  Lane  and  Miss  Julia  waited  until  the  stair  was 
clear,  but  as  Don  would  have  followed  them,  Hod  Brooks 
beckoned  to  him,  in  his  blue  eyes  a  sort  of  puzzled  won 
derment,  a  surprise  that  seemed  half  conviction. 

"I  thank  you,  Mr.  Brooks,"  said  Don  Lane,  turning 
to  his  counsel.  He  wondered  curiously  why  the  big 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


man  should  seem  so  red  of  face  and  so  perturbed. 
"What  can  I  do  for  you — I  have  not  much " 

The  great  face  of  Hod  Brooks  flushed  yet  more. 
"Don't  talk  to  me  about  pay,  my  boy/'  said  he — "don't 
talk  to  me  about  anything.  Wait  till  things  straighten 
out  a  little.  The  prosecution's  dropped.  That's  all — 
or  that's  enough.  Now,  listen.  I  knew  you  when  I  saw 
you  come  in  here!  They  told  me  you  were  dead,  but 
I  knew  you  when  first  my  eyes  fell  on  you.  You're  like 
your  mother.  I've  known  your  mother  for  years — I 
think  a  lot  of  her  and  her  friend  Miss  Julia,  don't  you 
see  ?  It's  strange  news  to  me  you  are  alive,  but  you  are, 
and  that's  enough.  I  must  be  going  now.  I'll  see  you 
and  your  mother  both.  But  before  I  do,  just  come 
with  me,  for  I've  a  little  more  counsel  to  give  you — it 
won't  cost  you  anything,  and  I  think  it  will  do  some 
good." 

He  beckoned  Don  to  join  him  once  more  in  the  hall, 
and  what  he  said  required  but  a  moment.  An  instant 
later,  and  old  Brooks  had  hurried  down  the  stair.  A 
part  of  his  words  to  Don  had  been  overheard  by  old  Silas, 
but  the  latter  could  only  wonder  what  it  all  might  mean. 

"Aaron,"  said  he,  "I  ain't  no  detecative,  and  don't 
claim  to  be,  but  now,  some  day  if  anything  should  hap 
pen — well,  I  ain't  sayin',  but  I  know  what  I  know,  and 
some  day,  some  day,  Aaron,  I  may  have  to  tell." 

Brooks  joined  Aurora  Lane  and  Miss  Julia  and  walked 

68 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


with  them  along  the  shady  street.  They  walked  in 
silence,  Aurora  Lane  still  staring  straight  ahead,  icy 
cold.  It  was  not  until  they  three  halted  at  her  little  gate 
that  she  could  find  voice. 

"How  can  we  thank  you?"  said  she.  "How  can  we 
pay?" 

The  deep  color  came  into  the  big  man's  moody  face 
once  more.  He  waved  a  hand.  "You  mustn't  talk  of 
that,"  said  he.  "I  reckon  I  owe  you  that  much  and  more 
—a  lot  more.  I'm  not  done  yet.  I've  done  what  I 
thought  was  right.  But  as  for  the  case,  I  didn't  fight  it, 
and  I  didn't  win  it — the  Judge  and  I,  we  just  didn't 
make  any  fight  at  all,  that's  all.  We  settled  it  out  of 
court,  on  terms  that  suited  him,  anyhow.  I'm  sorry  for 
Blackman, — he  was  just  honing  to  soak  that  boy  the 
limit!  Your  boy,  Aurora — that  ought  to  have  stayed 
dead,  I'm  afraid,  but  didn't. 

"But  peace  and  dignity,"  he  added — "listen  to  me — 
we'll  make  a  Sabbath  school  out  of  this  town  yet!  I 
can't  talk  very  much  more  now." 

With  a  great  uproarious  laugh,  somewhat  nervous, 
very  much  perturbed,  he  raised  his  hat  clumsily,  turned 
upon  his  heel  clumsily,  and  would  have  walked  off 
clumsily.  An  exclamation  from  Miss  Julia  stopped  him. 

"Where's  Don?"  asked  she.  "And  what's  that  over 
yonder — what  does  the  crowd  mean?"  She  pointed 
down  to  the  corner  of  the  courthouse  square,  where  in- 

69 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


deed  a  closely  packed  group  was  thrusting  this  way  and 
that,  apparently  about  some  center  of  interest. 

"Oh,  that?"  said  Hod  Brooks,  carelessly,  turning  his 
gaze  thither;  "that's  nothing.  Pray  don't  be  excited — 
it's  only  my — my  client,  carrying  out  the  last  of  my  legal 
instructions  to  him.*' 

"But  what  does  it  mean?"  demanded  Aurora  Lane  in 
sudden  terror — "what's  going  on  there?  Is  there  more 
trouble?" 

Hod  Brooks  broke  off  a  spear  of  grass  from  its  place 
between  the  sidewalk  and  the  fence,  and  meditatively  be 
gan  to  chew  it. 

"Oh,  no,  I  think  not,"  said  he  gently.  "I  don't  think 
the  boy  will  have  much  trouble.  He's  doing  what  I 
counseled  him  to  do." 

"What  have  you  told  him — what  is  he  doing — what 
does  it  all  mean  ?"  demanded  Aurora  Lane. 

"Nothing,"  said  the  big  man,  still  gazing  ruminatingly 
at  the  scene  beyond.  "As  a  member  of  the  bar  I  was 
bound  to  give  him  such  counsel  as  should  be  of  most 
practical  benefit  to  him — I  swore  that  in  my  oath  of  ad 
mission  to  the  bar.  So  I  told  him  that  as  soon  as  court 
was  adjourned  he  ought  to  take  old  Eph  Adamson  and 
thrash  him  this  time  good  and  proper.  I  told  him  noth 
ing  would  come  of  it  if  he  did.  I  told  him  it  was  his 
plain  duty  to  do  it,  and  if  he  didn't  do  it  I'd  do  it  my 
self,  because  the  dogs  have  got  to  be  put  to  sleep  again 

70 


IN  OPEN  COURT 


now  in  this  town.  ...  I  must  say,"  he  added,  "I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  my  client  is  following  his  in 
structions  to  the  letter!"  After  which  Hod  Brooks 
strolled  on  away. 

The  crowd  at  the  farther  corner  of  the  square  broke 
apart  before  long. 

"By  jinks !  Silas,"  said  old  Aaron  to  his  friend,  "who'd 
a  thought  it?  I've  seen  some  fights,  but  that  was  the 
shortest  I  ever  did  see.  And  he  made  old  Eph  Adamson 
holler  'enough !'  By  criminy !  he  done  that  very  thing. 
Looks  to  me,  safest  thing  right  is  not  to  talk  too  much 
about  'Rory  Lane !" 

Don  Lane  emerged  from  the  thick  of  the  crowd,  his 
coat  over  his  arm,  his  face  pale  in  anger,  his  eye  seeking 
any  other  champion  who  might  oppose  him. 

"Listen  to  me  now,  you  people !"  he  said.  "If  there's 
another  one  of  you  that  ever  does  what  that  man  there 
has  done,  or  says  what  he  said,  he'll  get  the  same  he  did, 
or  worse.  You  hear  me,  now — I'll  thrash  the  life  out  of 
any  man  that  raises  his  voice  against  anyone  of  my 
family.  You  hear  me,  now?" 

He  cast  a  straight  and  steady  gaze  upon  Old  Man  Tar- 
bush,  who  stood  irresolute. 

"No,  you'll  not  arrest  me  again,"  said  he.  "You  know 
you  won't.  You'll  leave  me  alone.  If  you  don't,  you'll 
be  the  next.  I  don't  love  you  any  too  well  the  way  it  is. 

"Get  out  now,  all  of  you — you  most  of  all,"  he  added, 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


and  gave  Marshal  Tarbush  a  contemptuous  shove  as  he 
elbowed  his  own  way  on  out  of  the  crowd. 

Old  Hod  Brooks  passed  on  down  the  street  and  took 
the  opposite  side  of  the  public  square,  paying  no  atten 
tion  to  all  this.  He  ambled  on  until  he  found  his  own 
office  at  length.  A  half  hour  later  he  might  have  been 
seen  in  his  customary  attitude,  slouched  deep  down  into 
his  chair,  his  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders,  his  feet 
propped  up  on  the  table,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the  pages 
of  a  volume  of  the  law. 

He  had  in  his  lap  now  no  less  an  authority  than 
"Chitty  on  Pleadings."  He  had  sat  there  for  some  mo 
ments — and  he  had  not  seen  a  word  on  all  the  page. 


CHAPTER  V 
CLOSED  DOORS 

BY  the  time  Don  Lane  had  reached  his  mother's 
house  he  partially  had  pulled  himself  together, 
but  his  face  was  still  pale  and  sullen,  not  yet  re 
covered  from  the  late  encounter. 

He  cast  himself  down  in  a  chair,  his  chin  in  his  hand, 
looking  everywhere  but  at  his  mother.  His  wounds, 
poor  lad,  were  of  the  soul,  slow  to  heal.  The  white- 
faced  woman  who  sat  looking  at  him  had  also  her 
wounds,  scarred  though  they  were,  these  years.  Her 
features  seemed  sharpened,  her  eyes  larger  for  the  dark 
shadows  now  about  them.  But  she  was  first  to  speak. 

"Wasn't  it  enough,  Don,"  said  she— "didn't  I  have 
enough  without  all  this?  And  on  the  very  day  I  have 
looked  forward  to  so  long — so  long!  You  don't  know 
how  I  have  worked  and  waited  for  this  very  day.  Why, 
it's  the  first  time  I've  ever  seen  you,  since  you  were  a 
baby.  You're  a  stranger  to  me — I  don't  know  you  yet. 
And  then  all  this  comes — now,  on  my  one  happy  day." 

"Well,  how  about  it,  then?"  he  demanded  brusquely. 
"You  know  what  they've  been  saying — I  couldn't  let  it 
go.  I  had  to  fight!" 

73 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Yes,  yes,  you  have — and  in  a  few  hours  you've  un 
done  twenty  years  of  work  for  me.  The  sleeping  dogs 
were  lying.  Why  waken  them  this  late?" 

"Who  was  my  father?"  demanded  the  young  man, 
now,  sternly.  "Come,  it's  time  for  me  to  know.  I 
couldn't  help  loving  you — no  one  could.  But — himj 
Tell  me — was  it  that  man  who  defended  me?  Is  my 
name  Don  Brooks?" 

She  made  him  no  answer,  though  her  throat  throbbed 
and  she  half  started  as  though  at  a  blow. 

"Oh,  no,  oh,  no!  What  am  I  saying!  Of  course  you 
understand,  mother,"  he  went  on  after  a  long,  long 
silence,  "I  don't  believe  anything  of  this,  not  even  what 
you  have  said  to  me  about  my  being — well,  filius  nullius. 
There  was  a  quick  divorce — a  hidden  decree — you  sepa 
rated,  you  two — he  was  poor — that  often  happens. 
Women  never  like  to  talk  about  it.  I  can't  blame  you 
for  calling  me  'nobody's  son,'  for  that  sort  of  thing  does 
happen — secret  and  suppressed  divorces,  you  know.  But 
as  to  that  other " 

For  a  long  time  Aurora  Lane  sat  facing  a  temptation 
to  accept  this  loophole  of  escape  which  thus  crudely 
her  boy  offered  her — escape  from  the  bitter  truth.  He 
would  fight!  He — and  Hod  Brooks — those  two  might 
defy  all  the  town — might  cow  them  all  to  silence  even 
now.  But — once  more  her  inborn  honesty  and  courage, 
her  years-old  resolution  triumphed. 

74 


CLOSED  DOORS 


"I  cannot  tell  you  who  your  father  was,  Don,"  said 
she  quietly,  at  length,  ash  pale,  trembling. 

"When  were  you  married — when — where?" 

"I  was  never  married,  Don!  What  I  told  you  was 
true !  Oh,  you  make  me  say  a  thing  to  you  I  ought  never 
to  have  been  asked  to  say,  but  it  is  the  truth.  You  may 
believe  it — you  must  believe  it — it's — it's  no  good  keeping 
on  evading — for  it's  true,  all  of  it."  She  was  gasping, 
choking,  now.  "This  is  a  ghastly  thing  to  have  to  do," 
she  cried  at  last.  "Ah,  it  oughtn't  ever  to  have  been 
asked  of  me." 

The  boy's  breath  also  came  in  a  quick  sob  now. 

"Mother,  that's  not  true — it  can't  be!  Why,  where 
does  that  leave  you — where  does  it  leave  me?" 

Her  voice  rose  as  she  looked  at  him,  so  young  and 
strong,  so  fine,  so  manly. 

"But  I'm  not  sorry,"  she  exclaimed,  "I'm  not — I'm 
not!" 

"So  what  they  told  me — what  I  made  them  all  take 
back — it  was  true?"  He  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"Yes,    Don.    We  can't  fight.    We  are  ruined." 

"Born  out  of  wedlock ! — But  my  father  only  ran  away 
— you  told  me  he  was  dead." 

"Regard  him  so,  Don." 

"Where  is  he — who  was  he?  Why  did  that  man  tell 
me  to  fight  them  all?" 

"I  will  never  tell  you,  Don,  never." 

75 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Her  dark  eyes  were  turned  upon  him  now,  eyes  un 
speakably  sad. 

"But  you  must !  You  wouldn't  deny  me  my  own 
chance  in  the  world?" 

"You  will  have  to  make  your  own  chance,  Don,  as  I 
did.  We  all  must.  I  have  my  secret.  The  door  is  closed. 
There  is  no  power  ever  can  open  that  door — not  even 
my  love  for  you,  my  boy.  Besides,  the  knowledge  could 
be  of  no  use  to  you." 

"Yes  ?  Is  that  indeed  so  ?  You  would  debar  me  from 
the  one  great  right  of  all  my  life  ?  Tell  me,  is  my  guess 
right?  I'll  make  that  man  marry  you." 

"Ah,  you  mean  revenge?" 

He  nodded,  savagely,  his  jaws  shut  tight.  But  his 
brow  grew  troubled.  "But  not  if  he  came  out  and  stood 
by  me  and  you,  even  this  late.  I  suppose " 

"There  is  no  revenge  for  a  woman,  Don.  They  only 
dream  there  is — once  I  dreamed  there  might  be  for  me. 
I  don't  want  it  now.  I  am  content.  There's  more  pity 
than  revenge  about  me  now.  I  only  want  to  be  fair  now, 
if  I  can,  and  now  I'm  glad — this  is  my  one  glorious  day. 
For  you're  mine.  You  are  my  boy — and  I'll  never  say 
that  I  am  sorry.  Because  I've  got  you.  They  can't  help 
that,  can  they,  Don?" 

"He  got  us  out  of  worse  trouble,  didn't  he?  Why  did 
he  do  that,  Mother  ?  What  made  him  look  at  us  the  way 
he  did?  And  what  made  the  other  lawyer,  Henderson, 

76 


CLOSED  DOORS 


drop  the  case?  How  did  they  settle  it  out  of  court? 
Lucky  for  us — but  why?"  He  spoke  sharply,  abruptly. 

A  trifle  of  color  came  to  Aurora  Lane's  cheeks.  "It 
was  his  way/'  she  said.  "He's  a  good  lawyer — advancing 
right  along,  more  and  more  every  year,  they  say.  He's 
always  had  a  hard  time  getting  a  start.  He's  like  me." 

Don  Lane  sat  silent  for  a  time,  but  what  he  thought  he 
held.  He  cast  a  discontented  glance  about  him  at  the 
meager  surroundings  of  his  mother's  home,  with  which 
he  could  claim  no  familiarity. 

"How  did  you  manage  it,  Mother  ?"  he  asked,  at  length. 
"How  did  you  get  me  through — big,  ignorant  loafer  that 
I've  been  all  my  life.  You  say  he  never  helped  any. 
Was  he  so  poor  as  all  that?" 

"I  couldn't  have  done  it  alone,"  said  Aurora  Lane, 
slowly.  Mechanically  she  smoothed  down  the  folds  of 
her  gown  in  her  lap  as  she  spoke. 

"I  have  told  you  you  had  two  mothers,  if  no  father," 
said  she  at  last,  suddenly.  "That's  almost  true.  You 
don't  know  how  much  you  owe  to  Miss  Julia.  She 
helped  me  put  you  through  school!  It  was  her  little 
salary  and  my  little  earnings — well,  they  have  proved 
enough." 

"Go  on !"  said  he,  bitterly.  "Tell  me  more !  Humili 
ate  me  all  you  can!  Tell  me  more  of  what  I  ought  to 
know.  Good  God !"  He  squared  his  shoulders  as  if  to 
throw  off  some  weight  which  he  felt  upon  them. 

77 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


His  mother  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  some  time. 
"Shall  I  tell  you  all  about  it,  Don?"  she  said.  "All  that 
I  may?" 

He  nodded,  frowning.  "Let's  have  it  over  and  done 
with." 

"When  I  came  here  I  was  young,"  said  Aurora  Lane, 
slowly,  after  a  long  time.  "Julia  was  young,  too,  just  a 
girl.  We  both  had  to  make  our  way.  Then — then — it 
happened." 

"You  didn't  love  me,  Mother?    You  hated  me?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  loved  you — you  don't  know  what  you  say 
— you  don't  know  how  I  loved  you.  But  everything  was 
very  hard  and  cruel.  .  .  .  Well,  one  night  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  what  I  must  do.  .  .  . 

"I  washed  you  all  clean  that  night.  I  dressed  you  the 
best  I  could — I  didn't  have  much  for  you.  But  you  were 
a  sweet  baby,  and  strong.  I  was  kissing  you  and  saying 
good-by  to  you  then,  when  Miss  Julia  came  in,  right  at 
the  door." 

"You  were  going  to  put  me  in  a  home — in  some  insti 
tution  ?" 

"No !"  She  spoke  now  in  short,  quick,  sobbing  breaths. 
.  .  .  "Don,  do  you  know  the  little  stream  that  runs 
through  the  edge  of  the  town?  Do  you  know  the  deep 
pool  beneath  the  bridge  where  the  water  turns  around? 
Well,  I  had  washed  you  and  dressed  you.  ...  I  was  going 
to  put  you  there.  ...  It  was  then  that  Julia  came/' 

78 


1 


CLOSED  DOORS 


He  turned  upon  her  a  face  which  it  seemed  to  her 
never  again  could  be  happy  and  free  from  care. 

"I  didn't  know  all  this,  Mother/'  said  he,  quietly, 
whitely.  "I  ask  your  pardon.  I  ask  you  to  forgive 
me." 

"No,  I  have  told  you  I  wanted  to  spare  you  all  this — 
I  wanted  that  door  to  remain  closed  forever.  But  now  it 
is  open — you  have  opened  it.  I  will  have  to  tell  you 
what  there  is  behind." 

It  seemed  many  moments  before  she  could  summon 
self-control  to  go  on. 

.  .  .  "So  we  two  sat  here  in  this  little  room,  Julia 
and  I.  You  were  in  my  lap,  holding  up  your  hands  and 
kicking  up  your  feet,  and  we  two  wept  over  you — we 
prayed  over  you,  too — she,  that  little  crippled  girl,  hope 
less,  who  could  never  have  a  boy  of  her  own!  I  told 
her  what  I  was  going  to  do  with  you.  She  fought  me 
and  took  you  away  from  me.  .  .  .  And  she  saved  you 
.  .  .  and  she  saved  me. 

"So  now  you  have  it."  He  heard  her  voice  trailing 
on  somewhere  at  a  distance  which  seemed  immeasurable. 
"You  owe  your  life  not  to  one  woman,  but  to  two,  after 
all.  Now  you  know  why  I  called  you  Dieudonne.  God 
sent  you  to  me.  As  I  have  known  how,  I  have  resolved 
to  pay  my  debt  to  God — for  you.  I  want  to  pity,  not 
hate.  I  want  to  be  grateful.  I  want  to  be  fair,  if  I  can 
learn  how." 

79 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Aurora  spoke  no  more  for  some  moments,  nor  did  her 
son. 

"We  two  talked  it  all  over  between  us/'  said  she  after 
a  time.  "She  asked  me  then,  once,  who  was  your  father 
— Julia  did.  I  said  he  was  poor.  I  told  her  never  to  ask 
me  again.  She  never  has.  Oh,  a  good  woman,  Julia 
Delafield — fine,  fine  as  the  Lord  ever  made ! 

"But  she  knew — we  both  knew — that  I  did  not  have 
the  means  of  bringing  you  up.  We  put  our  hearts  to 
gether — to  own  you.  We  put  our  little  purses  together 
— to  bring  you  up.  She  took  you  away  from  me,  pretty 
soon.  She  sent  you  to  some  of  her  people,  very  distant 
relatives.  They  were  poor,  too,  but  they  took  you  in  and 
they  never  knew — they  died,  both  of  them,  who  took 
you  in. 

"Then  for  a  time  we  sent  you  to  an  institution  for  or 
phans.  But  we  told  everybody  here  that  you  had  died. 
I  told  him  so — your — your  father — and  I  forbade  him 
ever  to  speak  to  me  again.  I  told  you  he  was  dead.  I 
told  him  you  were  dead.  He  is  dead.  So  are  you  dead. 
But  all  the  dead  have  come  to  life.  The  lost  is  found. 
Oh,  Don,  Don,  the  lost  is  found!  I've  found  so  much 
today — so  much,  so  much.  You're  my  boy,  my  own 
boy.  A  man !" 

He  sat  mute.    At  length  she  went  on. 

"We  schemed  and  saved  and  contrived,  all  the  little 
ways  that  we  could  to  save  our  money — we  have  both 

80 


CLOSED  DOORS 


done  that  all  our  lives  for  you.  We  wanted  to  educate 
you,  your  mothers  did.  And  oh!  above  all  things  we 
wanted  the  secret  kept.  I  did  the  best  I  knew.  They 
all  thought  you  died.  I  didn't  want  you  to  come  here — 
it  was  Miss  Julia.  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming  till 
you  wired.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  not  to  come  up — 
even  from  the  depot.  But  you  got  in  the  bus.  I  was 
delayed  there  in  the  square  by  those  men.  And  then  all 
this  happened.  And  after  twenty  years !" 

She  sat  silent,  using  all  her  splendid  command  of  her 
own  soul  to  still  the  stubborn  fluttering  in  her  throat. 

Dieudonne  Lane  looked  everywhere  but  at  her. 

"Mother,"  said  he  at  length,  "did  you — did  you  ever — 
love  him?" 

His  own  face  flushed  at  the  cruelty  of  this  question, 
too  late,  after  the  words  were  gone.  He  saw  her 
wince. 

"I  don't  know,  Don,"  said  she,  simply.  "It  happened. 
It  couldn't  again.  You  don't  know  about  women.  Seal 
your  lips  now,  as  mine  are  sealed.  Never  again  a  ques 
tion  such  as  that  to  me." 

The  sight  of  her  suffering  at  his  own  words  stirred  the 
elemental  rage  in  his  heart. 

"Tell  me,"  he  demanded  again  and  again.  'Who  was 
he  ?  Is  that  the  man  ?  I  begin  to  see — I'd  kill  him  if  I 
knew  for  sure." 

She  only  shook  her  head. 

81 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"But  you  must!"  said  he  at  last.  "You  are  cruel. 
You  don't  know." 

"What  is  that,  Don  ?  What  do  you  mean  ?  Oh,  I  see 
— it  is  because  of  her.  It's  Anne !  There's  someone  else 
you  love,  more  than  you  do  me." 

"Yes!"  he  confessed,  "more  than  I  do  life.  Thafs 
the  reason  I  must  know  all  about  myself.  Can't  you 
see  I've  got  to  play  fair  ?  There's  Anne !" 

"Who  is  she,  Don — you've  never  told  me  very  much 
yet." 

"Anne  Oglesby — her  family  lived  at  Columbus  before 
she  was  left  alone.  You  know  her — why,  she's  the  ward 
of  Judge  Henderson,  here  in  town.  I  believe  she  was 
left  a  considerable  estate,  and  he  handles  it  for  her. 
She's  been  here.  She's  told  me  about  this  place — she's 
seen  you,  maybe — before  I  ever  did.  Yes — it's  Anne! 
I've  got  to  think  of  her.  I  don't  dare  drag  her  into 
trouble — my  hands  are  tied." 

He  rose  now,  and  in  his  excitement  walked  away  from 
his  mother,  so  that  he  did  not  note  her  face  at  the 
moment. 

"You  see,  we  met  from  time  to  time  back  East  in  our 
college  town.  I  never  told  her  much  about  myself,  be 
cause  I  didn't  know  much  about  myself,  really,  when  it 
comes  to  that.  I  said  I  was  an  orphan,  and  poor.  But 
— I'd  made  all  the  teams — and  I've  studied,  too.  I  was 
valedictorian,  in  spite  of  all,  Mother.  They  don't  amount 

82 


CLOSED  DOORS 


to  much,  usually— valedictorians — but  I  was  sure  I  would 
— when  I  knew  that  Anne 

"I  didn't  know  about  our  caring  for  one  another  until 
we  found  we  had  to  part — just  now,  today,  this  morning 
on  the  train  before  I  got  off  here.  Then  we  couldn't 
part,  you  know.  So  just  before  we  passed  through  this 
town,  right  on  the  train — today,  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
before  I  met  you — this  morning,  this  very  day,  I — we — 
well " 

"Yes,  Don,"  she  said,  "I  know !"  Her  eyes  were  very 
large,  her  face  very  pale. 

He  choked. 

"But  now  we've  got  to  part,"  said  he.  "If  I  am  no 
body,  or  worse,  I've  got  to  be  fair  with  her." 

A  look  of  pride  came  into  his  mother's  face  at  his 
words.  "I'm  glad,  Don,"  said  she.  "You've  got  honor 
in  you.  But  in  no  case  could  I  see  you  marry  that  girl." 

He  turned  upon  her  in  sudden  astonishment.  "Isn't 
she  as  good  as  we  are?  Isn't  her  family — don't  you 
know  the  Oglesbys  of  Columbus — who  they  are  and  what 
they  stand  for — where  they  came  from?  Can  we  say 
as  much?" 

"They  are  better  than  we  can  claim  to  be,  Don,  yes," 
said  she,  ignoring  his  brutal  frankness.  "I  know  her, 
yes.  I  knew  her  years  ago — the  ward  of  Judge  Hender 
son.  Sometimes  she  has  been  here  and  kept  his  house 
hold  for  him — some  day  she'll  live  with  Judge  Hender- 

83 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


son  even  if  she  marries.  He's  very  fond  of  her.  But  as 
to  your  marrying  Anne  Oglesby,  you  must  not  think 
of  it." 

"What  on  earth !"  he  began.  "What  have  you  against 
her?" 

"It  is  enough  that  I  feel  as  I  do  about  any  girl  who 
has  been  here  and  who  knows  about — about  the  way — 
the  way  I've  lived.  Will  she  know  who  I  am  when  she 
knows  who  you  are — and  what  you  are  not?  Has  she 
identified  us  two — have  you  really  been  fair  with  her?" 
Now  the  color  began  to  rise  in  her  paled  cheeks. 

"I've  not  had  time  yet!  I  told  you  it  all  happened 
just  a  moment  ago."  Then,  still  brutally,  he  went  on. 
"Why,  what  do  you  know  of  love  ?  What  do  you  know 
about  the  way  I  feel  toward  Anne?" 

"Be  as  cruel  as  you  like,"  said  she,  flushing  now  under 
such  words.  "I  presume  you  feel  as  all  men  think  they 
feel  sometimes.  They  see  that  woman  for  that  moment 
— they  think  that  they  believe  what  they  say — they  think 
they  must  do  what  they  do.  You  are  a  man,  yes,  Don, 
or  you  could  not  have  said  to  me  what  you  have." 

He  flung  out  his  arms,  impatient.  "I  am  having  a  fine 
start,  am  I  not  ?  I'm  a  beggar,  a  pauper,  and  worse  than 
that.  I've  got  to  pay  you  and  Miss  Julia.  I've  got  to 
go  on  through  life,  with  that  secret  on  my  mind.  I  can't 
confront  that  man  and  tell  him.  You  and  I — just  today 
meeting — why,  we  begin  to  argue.  And  now  I've  got  to 


CLOSED  DOORS 


face  Anne  Oglesby  with  that  secret.  It  can't  be  a  secret 
from  her.  I'd  never  ask  her  to  join  her  life  to  one 
like  mine.  And — God!  a  woman  like  her.  ...  I 
can't  tell  you.  .  .  .  Death — why,  I  believe  this  is 
worse." 

"Don't  tell  me,  Don,  don't  try."  She  turned  to  him, 
her  voice  hoarse  and  low.  "It's  a  wrong  thing  for  you 
to  talk  to  me  about  things  of  that  sort.  Birds  out  of  the 
nest  begin  all  over  again — this  must  begin  again,  I  sup 
pose — but  it's  too  awful — too  terrible.  I  don't  want  to 
hear  any  more  talk  about  love.  But  rather  than  see  you 
live  with  her,  rather  than  see  you  talk  that  way  of  her,  it 
seems  to  me  I'd  rather  die.  Because,  she  knows  all  about 
me — or  will.  What  made  you  come?  Why  didn't  you 
stay  away?  Why  couldn't  you  find  some  other  girl  to 
love,  away  from  here?" 

"Which  shows  how  much  you  really  care  for  my  hap 
piness!  I  suppose,  like  many  women,  you  are  stubborn. 
Is  that  it,  mother?" 

She  winced  under  this,  wringing  her  hands.  "If  I 
could  only  lie — if  I  only  could !" 

"And  if  I  only  could,  also!"  he  repeated  after  her. 
"But  she's  coming  tomorrow,  Mother — I've  made  her 
promise  she'd  come  to  see  you.  She  said  she'd  make 
some  excuse  to  come  down  and  see  her  guardian.  I'm 
going  to  meet  her  tomorrow.  And  when  I  do,  I've  got  to 
tell  her  what  I've  learned  today — every  word  of  it — all — 

85 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


all !  And  I'll  be  helpless.  I'll  not  be  able  to  fight.  I'll 
have  to  take  it." 

'That's  right,  Don,  that's  right.  Even  if  I  loved  her 
as  you  do,  even  if  it  were  the  best  thing  in  the  world 
for  you  if  you  could  marry  her,  I'd  say  that  you  should 
not.  Don,  whatever  you  do,  don't  ever  be  crooked  with  a 
woman.  She's  a  woman,  too.  No  matter  what  it  cost, 
I  couldn't  see  her  suffer  by  finding  out  anything  after  it 
was  too  late." 

"It  won't  take  long,"  said  he,  simply.  "We'll  part 
tomorrow.  But  oh!  Why  did  you  save  me — why  did 
Miss  Julia  come  that  night?  My  place  was  under  the 
water — there!  Then  the  door  would  have  been  closed 
indeed.  But  now  all  the  doors  are  closed  on  ahead,  and 
none  behind.  I'll  never  be  happy  again.  And  I'm  mak 
ing  her  unhappy,  too,  who's  not  to  blame.  It  runs  far, 
doesn't  it? — far  and  long." 

"As  you  grow  older,  Don,"  said  she,  "you  will  find  it 
doesn't  so  much  matter  whether  or  not  you  are  happy." 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'm  done.  It's  over.  There's 
nothing  ahead  for  me.  I  never  had  a  chance.  Mother, 
you  and  Miss  Julia  made  a  bad  mistake." 

It  seemed  that  she  scarcely  heard  him,  or  as  though 
his  words,  brutal,  cruel  though  they  were,  no  longer 
impinged  upon  her  consciousness.  She  spoke  faintly,  as 
though  almost  breathless,  yet  addressed  herself  to  him. 

"Why,  Don,  it  was  here  in  this  very  room  .  .  .  and 

86 


CLOSED  DOORS 


you  lay  in  my  arms  and  looked  up  at  me  and  laughed. 
You  were  so  sweet.  .  .  .  But  what  shall  I  do?  I  love 
you,  and  I  want  you  to  love  me,  and  you  can't.  What 
have  I  done  to  you  ?  Oh,  wasn't  the  world  cruel  enough 
to  me,  Don?  Oh,  yes,  yes,  it  runs  far — far  and  long, 
a  woman's  sin !  You  are  my  sin.  And  oh !  I  love  you, 
and  I  will  not  repent !  God  do  so  to  me — I'll  not  repent !" 

He  looked  at  her,  still  frowning,  but  with  tenderness 
under  the  pain  of  his  own  brow.  At  last  he  flung  him 
self  on  his  knees  before  her  and  dropped  his  head  into 
her  lap. 

He  felt  her  hands  resting  on  his  head  as  though  in 
shelter — hands  that  lay  side  by  side,  hands  long  and 
shapely  once,  but  bruised  and  worn  now  with  labor, 
could  he  but  have  seen  them — Aurora's  hands — he  could 
not  have  helped  but  realize  her  long  years  of  toil.  He 
heard  her  faint,  steady  sobbing  now. 

After  a  time  she  bent  lower  above  his  head  as  he  knelt 
there,  silent  and  motionless.  Slowly  her  hand  began 
once  more  to  stroke  his  hair. 


CHAPTER   VI 
THE  DIVIDING  LINE 

THE  commonplace  sound  of  the  telephone's  ring 
broke  the  silence  in  the  little  room.  Aurora  Lane 
arose  and  passed  into  the  adjoining  room  to 
answer  it.  Her  son  regarded  her  with  lackluster  eyes 
when  she  returned. 

"It  was  Miss  Julia,"  said  she,  "at  the  library.  She 
wanted  to  know  if  you  were  here.  She  says  we  must  be 
sure  to  come  out  tonight." 

"Come  out— to  what?" 

"It's  her  annual  jubilee,  when  she  reports  progress  to 
the  town.  She  is  very  proud  of  her  new  books  and  rugs 
and  pictures.  Everybody  will  be  there.  You  see,  Don, 
we  don't  have  much  in  a  town  like  this  to  entertain  us. 
Why,  if  I  could  see  a  real  theater  once — I  don't  know 
how  happy  I  would  be.  We've  had  movies,  and  now  and 
then  a  lecture — and  Miss  Julia." 

"I  don't  want  to  go,  mother." 

"Neither  do  I,  Don ;  so  I'm  going." 

"Why  should  we  go  ?    It's  nothing  to  us." 

"It's  everything  to  Miss  Julia — and  it's  everything 
to  us,  Don.  Stop  to  think  and  you  will  realize 

88 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


what    I    mean.      We    can't    run    away    under    fire." 

"There's  something  in  that,"  he  rejoined  after  a  time, 
slowly.  "Besides,  what  Miss  Julia  wishes  we  both 
ought  to  do." 

Hands  in  pockets,  he  began  once  more  gloomily  to  pace 
up  and  down  the  narrow  room.  "I  can't  stand  this  much 
longer,  mother,"  said  he.  "I've  got  to  get  out — I've  got 
to  get  hold  of  some  money  somehow." 

"Yes,"  said  she.  "As  for  me,  I  have  collected  the  last 
money  due  me — it  went  for  your  graduation  suit.  I 
don't  know  how  you  saved  your  railway  fare  home.  I 
didn't  want  you  to  know  these  things,  of  course,  but  as 
things  have  happened,  you  had  to  know.  A  great  many 
things  today — well,  they've  gotten  away  from  me." 

"It's  I  who  have  spoiled  everything,  too.  But  how 
could  I  help  it — I  just  couldn't  submit." 

"It's  hard  to  submit,  Don,"  said  she  slowly.  "Perhaps 
a  man  ought  not  to  learn  it.  A  woman  has  to  learn  it." 

He  turned  to  look  at  her  wonderingly,  and  at  length 
went  over  and  put  a  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"Dear  Mom!"  said  he  gently.  "You're  wonderful. 
You  are  fine — splendid!  I'm  just  getting  acquainted 
with  you,  am  I  not?  You're  a  good  woman,  mother; 
I'm  so  glad." 

She  looked  at  him  now  with  eyes  suddenly  wet,  her 
face  working  strangely,  and  turned  away. 

"Come,  Don,"  said  she  after  a  time.     "We  must  get 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


ready  for  our  little  supper.  Spring  Valley,  you  see,"  she 
added,  gaily,  "dines  at  six  and  goes  to  the  movies  at 
seven." 

Presently  she  left  him  to  his  own  devices  for  a  time, 
before  calling  him  out  into  the  little  kitchen  which  served 
her  also  as  a  dining-room. 

"It's  not  much,"  said  she,  shrugging  and  spreading  out 
her  hands,  "but  it's  all  I'd  have  had — bread  and  milk  and 
cereal.  I  don't  use  much  sugar  or  butter."  Then,  hur 
riedly,  seeing  the  pain  she  had  caused  him,  she  went  on. 

"You  soon  get  used  to  such  things.  Why,  I  have  only 
two  gowns  to  my  name,  and  I  put  on  my  best  one  to  meet 
you,  when  you  wired  you  were  coming,  and  I  saw  I'd 
have  to  meet  you.  This  hat  has  been  fixed  over  I  don't 
know  how  many  times — once  more,  for  you.  You  will 
see,  I'll  not  be  at  much  trouble  to  dress  for  the  entertain 
ment  tonight." 

She  opened  upon  the  table  cover  her  little  pocket  book 
and  showed  its  contents — one  small,  tightly-folded,  much- 
creased  bill,  which  still  lay  within  its  depths. 

"My  last!"  said  she,  grimacing.  "That's  our  capital 
in  life,  Don !  And  we  have  all  the  world  against  us  now. 
We  must  fight,  whether  or  not  we  want  to  fight." 

"But  now,"  she  added,  "I  can't  talk  any  more.  Let 
us  go.  It  may  do  us  good.  Miss  Julia  at  least  will  be 
glad  to  see  us,  if  no  one  else  is." 

Early  as  they  were,  they  were  not  the  first  arrivals 

90 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


at  the  library  room  where  Miss  Julia  Delafield  had  de 
vised  her  entertainment.  She  had  borrowed  certain 
benches  from  the  public  school,  certain  chairs  as  well. 
Already  a  goodly  portion  of  Spring  Valley's  best  people 
filled  these.  The  seats  made  back  from  the  little  raised 
platform  which  usually  served  as  the  librarian's  desk 
place.  This  now  was  enlarged  by  the  removal  of  all  the 
desks. 

Back  of  this  narrow  dais  was  draped  a  large  flag  of 
our  Union,  and  in  the  center  of  its  folds  was  the  cam 
paign  portrait  of  Judge  Henderson,  chief  speaker  of  the 
evening. 

Aurora  Lane  and  her  son  entered  unnoticed  for  the 
time,  and  quietly  took  seats  in  the  last  row  of  benches  at 
the  rear,  near  to  some  awkward  youths  who  had  strag 
gled  in  and  seemed  uncomfortable  in  their  surroundings. 
Not  even  Miss  Julia  noted  them,  for  presently  it  became 
her  flushing  duty  to  escort  Judge  Henderson,  and  several 
of  her  other  speakers,  to  the  edge  of  the  little  platform, 
where  they  took  their  places  back  of  the  conventional 
table  and  pitcher  of  water. 

The  leader  in  the  town's  affairs  bent  over  affably  to 
speak  with  his  associates — three  ministers  of  the  gospel, 
Reverend  Augustus  Wilson,  of  the  U.  P.  Church,  Rev 
erend  Henry  Fullerton,  of  the  Congregationalist  Church, 
and  Reverend  William  B.  Burnham,  of  the  Methodists. 
There  were  many  other  ministers  of  the  gospel  in  Spring 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Valley,  which  rejoiced  exceedingly  in  the  multiplicity  of 
its  churches;  but  to  these,  in  the  belief  of  Miss  Julia, 
had  more  specially  been  given  the  gift  of  tongues. 

There  came  presently  and  seated  himself  on  the  bench 
next  to  Aurora  Lane  yet  another  minister  of  the  gospel, 
old  Mr.  Rawlins,  of  the  Church  of  Christ,  the  least  im 
portant  denomination  of  the  village,  so  few  of  numbers 
and  so  scant  of  means  that  its  house  of  worship  must 
needs  be  located  just  at  the  edge  of  town,  where  land 
was  very  cheap.  A  kindly  man,  Parson  Rawlins,  and  of 
mysterious  life,  for  none  might  say  whence  came  his 
raven-brought  revenue.  Questioned,  Brother  Rawlins 
admitted  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  sure  whether  or 
not  he  had  a  definite  creed.  He  held  out  his  hand  smil 
ingly  to  Aurora  Lane.  .  .  .  An  old  man  he  was,  with 
white  hair  and  a  thin  face,  his  chin  shaven  smooth  and 
shining  between  his  bushy  white  side  whiskers.  His 
eyes  were  very  mild. 

"How  do  you  do,  Aurora?"  said  he.  "Now,  don't  say 
a  word  to  me — I  know  this  boy."  And  he  shook  hands 
with  Don  also.  "I  know  him,"  said  he,  "and  I  know  all 
he  has  done  today — we  all  know  all  about  it,  Aurora,  so 
don't  talk  to  me.  Tut,  tut,  my  son !  But  had  I  been  in 
your  place  very  likely  I  should  have  done  the  same  thing 
— I  might  have  whipped  old  Eph  Adamson.  You  know, 
sometimes  even  a  minister  asks,  'Lord,  shall  we  smite 
with  the  sword ?'" 

92 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


The  face  of  the  old  man  grew  grave  as  he  looked  from 
one  to  the  other.  Some  presentiment  told  him  that  a 
change  had  come  across  Aurora  Lane's  manner  of  life. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  she  had  grown  defiant — was  she 
restive  under  the  weight  of  the  years?  Had  this  sudden 
and  sensational  resurrection  of  her  past  brought  rebellion 
to  her  heart,  all  these  years  so  patient,  so  gentle? 

He  waved  a  hand  towards  the  backs  of  the  assemblage. 
"I  suppose  you  recognize  some  of  your  own  handicraft, 
don't  you,  'Rory?"  said  he,  laughing. 

Aurora  laughed,  also.  "A  good  many,"  said  she 
frankly.  "But  the  mail  order  business  in  ready-trimmed 
hats  has  cut  into  my  trade  a  great  deal  of  late.  Then 
there  are  excursions  into  Columbus.  Still,  I  see  some  of 
my  bonnets  here  and  there — even  now  and  then  a  gown." 

They  both  laughed  yet  again,  cheerily,  both  knowing 
the  philosophy  of  the  poor.  Further  conversation  at  the 
time  was  cut  off  by  the  entrance  of  the  musicians  of  the 
evening,  an  organization  known  as  the  Spring  Valley 
Cornet  Band.  Tbese  young  men,  a  dozen  in  number, 
made  their  way  solemnly  to  a  place  adjacent  to  the  plat 
form,  where  presently  they  busied  themselves  with  certain 
mild  tapping  of  drums  and  soft  meanings  of  alto  horns 
and  subdued  tootlings  of  cornets. 

The  leader  of  the  band  was  the  chief  clerk  in  the  First 
National  Bank,  Mr.  Jerome  Westbrook  by  name,  himself 
Spring  Valley's  glass  of  fashion  and  mold  of  form,  and 

93 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


not  unconscious  of  the  public  attention  attracted  to  him 
self  in  his  present  capacity.  Now  and  again  he  looked 
out  over  the  audience  to  see  if  he  could  locate  a  certain 
young  lady,  none  less  than  Sallie  Lester,  the  daughter  of 
the  president  of  his  bank,  upon  whom  he  had  bestowed 
the  honor  of  his  affections.  He  was  willing  to  add  there 
to  eke  the  honor  of  his  hand. 

It  was  as  Aurora  Lane  had  said — this  annual  gathering 
of  Miss  Julia's  was  the  social  clearing  house  of  the  com 
munity.  And  this  typical  attendance,  representative  of 
the  little  city  at  its  best,  offered  that  strange  contrast 
of  the  sexes  so  notable  in  any  American  assemblage. 
The  men  were  ordinary  of  look  and  garb,  astonishingly 
ordinary,  if  one  might  use  the  term;  stalwart  enough, 
but  slouchy,  shapeless,  and  ill-clad.  Not  so  the  women, 
who  seemed  as  though  of  another  and  superior  social 
world.  If  here  and  there  the  face  of  a  man  seemed 
stolid,  cloddish,  peasant-like,  not  so  any  of  the  half  dozen 
faces  of  the  women  next  adjoining  him.  Type,  class — 
call  what  you  like  that  which  is  owned  by  the  average 
American  woman,  even  of  middle  class — that  distinction 
was  as  obvious  as  is  usual  in  all  such  gatherings.  Scat 
tered  here  and  there  through  this  audience,  as  in  any 
audience  of  even  the  humblest  sort  in  America,  were  a 
half  dozen  faces  of  young  women,  any  of  whom  must 
have  been  called  very  beautiful,  strikingly  beautiful — 
beautiful  as  Aurora  Lane  must  once  have  been. 

94 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


The  apparel  of  the  men  was  nondescript.  That  of  the 
women,  however  or  wherever  secured,  made  them  crea 
tures  apart.  The  men,  too,  sat  uncommunicative,  silent ; 
whereas  their  daughters  or  spouses  turned,  chattering, 
laughing,  waving  a  hand  to  this  or  that  friend.  In  short, 
the  women  availed  themselves  fully,  as  women  will,  of 
this  opportunity  of  social  intercourse.  And  always,  as 
head  turned  to  head,  there  was  a  look,  a  whispered  word, 
of  woman  to  woman.  Little  by  little,  in  the  mysterious 
way  of  such  assemblages,  every  woman  in  the  house 
came  to  know  that  Aurora  Lane  and  her  boy — who  had 
only  been  hid,  and  not  dead,  all  these  years — were  seated 
on  the  back  seat,  next  to  Old  Man  Rawlins.  Did  anyone 
ever  hear  the  like  of  that?  In  reality  Spring  Valley  was 
out  to  hear  the  rest  of  the  news  about  Aurora  Lane  and 
her  unfathered  boy  as  soon  as  possible.  Gossip  covers 
all  the  nuances,  the  shades,  the  inner  and  hidden  things 
of  information,  especially  when  information  may  be 
classified  as  scandal.  This  is  the  real  news.  It  never 
needs  wings.  It  needed  no  wings  now. 

Naturally,  it  was  incumbent  upon  Judge  Henderson  to 
introduce  a  minister  of  the  gospel  to  open  the  meeting 
with  prayer — we  Americans  apologize  to  Providence  at 
all  public  occasions,  even  our  political  conventions.  Nat 
urally  thereafter  Judge  Henderson  rose  ,once  more,  took 
a  drink  of  water,  and  signaled  to  the  leader  of  the  Spring 
Valley  Silver  Cornet  Band;  whereupon  Mr.  Jerome 

95 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Westbrook,  wiping  all  previous  trace  of  German  silver 
from  below  his  mustache,  essayed  once  more  the  leader 
ship  in  concord  of  sweet  sounds.  This  brought  Judge 
Henderson  up  to  his  introductory  remarks,  properly  so- 
called. 

He  made  no  ill  figure  as  he  stood,  immaculately  clad 
as  was  his  custom,  his  costume  still  being  the  long  black 
coat,  his  white  waistcoat,  the  white  tie,  which  he  had 
worn  that  afternoon  in  court.  It  was  charged  against 
him,  by  certain  of  his  enemies,  that  Judge  Henderson  had 
been  known  to  change  his  shirt  twice  in  one  day,  but  this 
was  not  commonly  believed.  That  he  changed  it  at  least 
once  every  day  had,  however,  come  to  be  accepted  in 
common  credence,  although  this  also  was  held  as  his 
sheer  eccentricity. 

His  face  was  smooth-shaven,  for  really  he  was  shaved 
daily,  and  not  merely  on  Saturday  nights.  His  wide, 
easy,  good-humored  mouth,  his  large  features,  his  well- 
defined  brows,  his  full  eye,  his  commanding  figure,  gave 
him  a  presence  good  enough  for  almost  any  stage.  He 
stood  easily  now,  accepting  as  his  right  the  applause 
which  greeted  him,  and  smiled  as  he  placed  on  the  table 
beside  him  the  inevitable  glass  of  water  at  which  he  had 
sipped.  Some  said  that  in  his  own  office  Judge  Hender 
son  did  not  confine  himself  to  water — but  any  leading 
citizen  must  have  his  enemies. 

The  worthy  Judge  made  precisely  what  manner  of  ad- 

96 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


dress  must  be  made  on  precisely  such  occasions.  To  him 
his  audience  was  made  up  of  fellow  citizens,  ladies  and 
gentlemen.  He  accosted  them  with  the  deference  and 
yet  the  confidence  of  some  statesman  of  old.  Indeed,  he 
might  have  been  scarce  less  a  figure  than  Senator  Thomas 
Hart  Benton  himself,  so  profuse — and  so  inaccurate — 
were  the  classical  quotations  which  he  saw  fit  to  employ. 
It  had  grown  his  custom  to  do  this  with  care-free  mind. 
Indeed,  there  was  but  one  here  in  this  audience  tonight 
who  perhaps  might  have  chided  him  for  his  Greek — a 
young  man  who  sat  far  back  in  the  rear,  in  a  place  near 
the  door — a  young  man  who  none  the  less,  it  must  be  con 
fessed,  paid  small  attention  to  the  Hendersonian  allusions 
which  had  to  do  with  literature,  with  history,  the  gentle 
arts,  the  culture,  the  progress  of  our  proud  republic,  and 
of  this  particular  American  community. 

So  now  it  came  on  to  the  time  of  Reverend  Henry  B. 
Fullerton,  who  likewise  spoke  of  literature  and  culture, 
patriotism  and  the  glories  of  our  republic.  The  other 
ministers  also  in  due  course,  after  certain  uneasy  con 
sultation  of  the  clock  upon  the  opposite  wall,  spoke  much 
in  similar  fashion. 

After  these  formidable  preliminaries,  it  was  time  for 
Judge  Henderson  to  give  the  real  address  of  the  evening 
— this  latter  now  delivered  with  frequent  consultations  of 
the  large  watch  which  he  placed  beside  him  on  the  table. 
So  presently  he  came  to  such  portion  of  his  speech  as 

97 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


requires  the  orator  to  say,  "But,  my  friends,  the  hour 
grows  late."  Whereafter  presently,  figuratively,  he  dis 
missed  the  audience  with  his  blessing,  well  satisfied  from 
the  applause  that  his  campaign  was  doing  well.  He  had 
but  casually  and  incidentally  allowed  it  to  be  known  that 
his  own  annual  check  to  the  city  library  was  for  a  thou 
sand  dollars — no  more  than  would  cover  the  librarian's 
salary. 

By  this  time,  it  was  a  half-hour  past  midnight,  and 
none  present  might  say  that  he  had  not  had  full  worth  of 
all  the  moneys  expended  for  this  entertainment.  It  had 
been  a  great  evening  for  the  candidate.  Moreover,  most 
of  the  old  ladies  present  had  enjoyed  themselves  in  social 
conversation  regarding  the  absorbing  news  of  the  day. 
As  for  the  half  dozen  young  village  beauties  present, 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  know  precisely  where 
Don  Lane  sat — not  even  Sally  Lester,  who  irritated 
Jerome  Westbrook  beyond  measure  when  he  saw  her 
pretending  to  look  at  the  clock  at  the  back  of  the  hall 
to  see  what  time  it  was.  Really,  as  Jerome  Westbrook 
knew  very  well,  she  was  only  trying  to  see  Don  Lane, 
the  newest  young  man  in  town — wholly  impossible  so 
cially,  but  one  who  had  made  sudden  history  of  interest 
in  feminine  eyes. 

Moody  and  intent  upon  his  own  thoughts,  Don  Lane 
himself  by  no  means  realized  the  importance  of  the  oc 
casion  so  far  as  he  himself  and  his  mother  were  con- 


THE  DIVIDING  LINE 


cerned.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  on  trial  here,  that 
they  two  were  on  inspection.  His  ears  were  deaf  to  the 
impassioned  words  of  all  and  several  of  the  orators  of 
the  evening.  Before  his  eyes  appeared  only  one  face.  It 
was  that  of  a  young  girl  with  a  face  clean-cut  and  high- 
browed,  with  sweet  and  kindly  eyes — the  girl  he  was  to 
meet  tomorrow,  to  whom  he  was  to  say  good-by — Anne 
Oglesby.  "Anne!  Anne!"  his  heart  was  exclaiming  all 
the  time.  For  now  he  knew  that  he  in  turn  must  bruise 
yet  another  human  heart,  because  of  what  had  been,  and 
in  his  brain  was  room  now  for  no  other  thought,  no 
other  scene,  no  other  face.  There  swept  down  upon 
him,  if  he  thought  of  it  at  all  now  and  then,  only  a  feeling 
of  the  insufficiency,  the  narrowness,  the  unworthiness, 
the  tawdriness,  of  all  this  which  lay  about  him.  And 
yet  it  was  this  to  which  he  must  come  back — this  was  his 
world — this  at  least  was  the  world  in  which  his  mother 
had  made  her  own  battle — had  won  for  a  time,  and  now 
had  lost. 

After  midnight,  when  the  assembly  was  dismissed, 
Spring  Valley  felt  it  had  done  its  duty — it  had  come  out 
to  see  Miss  Julia's  library.  Everyone  who  passed  Miss 
Julia,  as  she  stood  near  the  door,  flushed  and  pleased, 
congratulated  her  on  the  progress  she  had  made,  on  the 
neatness  of  her  desks  and  shelves.  Some  said  a  word 
about  the  great  work  she  was  doing.  Others  shook  hands 
with  the  elevated  elbow,  smiled  sweetly,  and  repeated, 

99 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


parrot-like,  "So  glad !"  and  "Thanks  so  much !"  In  any 
case,  little  by  little  the  room  was  cleared.  There  re 
mained  only  the  unspeakable  desolation  of  any  room 
lately  occupied  by  a  crowd — the  litter  of  paper  and  odds 
and  ends,  the  dulled  lights,  the  heavy  and  oppressive  air. 

In  her  place,  back  of  the  dividing  line  which  fenced  off 
the  socially  elect,  stood  Aurora  Lane,  pale,  weary,  and 
yet  composed,  her  hands  folded  low  before  her.  She 
looked  straight  ahead,  nor  asked  any  of  these  people 
passing  out  for  that  recognition  which  she  knew  they 
would  not  give  her.  Don  himself,  speaking  now  and 
then  to  the  kindly  old  man  who  retained  his  place  at  their 
side,  found  himself  now  and  again  in  spite  of  himself 
wondering  that  of  all  these  who  passed,  and  of  these 
many  who  turned  and  gazed  their  way,  none  ventured  a 
greeting.  His  own  face  grew  hard.  All  life  to  him  had 
been  a  sweet,  happy,  sunny  thing  till  now.  He  never 
had  known  any  contest  but  that  of  sport,  and  there,  even 
in  defeat,  he  had  met  sportsmanship.  He  had  not  learned 
that  in  human  life  as  we  live  it,  honor  and  fair  play  and 
generosity  and  justice  are  things  not  in  any  great  de 
mand,  nor  sportsmanship  in  any  general  practice. 

"Come,  we  must  go,"  said  Aurora  at  length. 

They  were  the  last  to  leave  the  room,  although  they 
might  have  been  the  first.  In  a  brief  lesson  Don  Lane's 
mother  had  taught  him  much. 


100 


CHAPTER 
AT  MIDNIGHT 

MISS  JULIA,  late  mistress  of  ceremonies,  passed 
here  and  there,  turning  out  the  lights.  The  bon 
nets  and  blouses  all  had  departed,  the  coughs 
and  shufflings  had  subsided.  She  might  give  way  now  to 
the  weariness,  the  reaction,  attendant  upon  long  hours 
of  eager  enterprise. 

Strange,  she  did  not  look  about  to  find  her  friend, 
Aurora  Lane,  did  not  even  hasten  to  take  the  hand  of 
Don  Lane  before  he  had  left  the  room. 

The  little  group  at  the  door — Aurora,  Don  and  the 
old  minister,  now  was  increased  in  the  entry  way  by  the 
addition  of  none  less  than  the  tall  and  awkward  figure 
of  Horace  Brooks,  who  came  forward,  smiling  uncer 
tainly  as  the  other  three  finally  emerged  from  the  door. 
Aurora,  quickly  divining  his  purpose,  made  some  hesi 
tating  excuse,  and  darted  back  into  the  hall,  where  now 
Miss  Julia  had  well  accomplished  the  purpose  of  extin 
guishing  the  lights.  But  what  Aurora  saw  caused  her  to 
withdraw  softly,  and  not  to  speak  to  Miss  Julia  at  all 
that  evening ! 

One  by  one  the  switches  had  cut  off  the  side  lights, 

101 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  desk  lights,  those  of  the  ceiling.  Two  lights  re 
mained  burning  at  the  back  of  the  little  platform  where 
the  speakers  iiad  sat,  one  electrolier  on  each  side  of  the 
portrait  over  which  still  hung  the  draped  flag  of  the 
Union — the  portrait  of  the  Honorable  William  Hender 
son,  lawyer,  judge,  politician  and  leading  citizen. 

Before  this  portrait  stood  Julia  Delafield,  her  smooth- 
topped  stick  resting  on  the  little  table  against  which  she 
supported  herself  now.  She  stood,  both  her  hands 
clasped  at  her  bosom.  She  was  looking  up  directly  at 
the  lighted  features  of  this  portrait,  and  on  her  face  was 
so  rapt  a  look,  her  gaze  was  so  much  that  of  one  adoring 
a  being  of  another  world — so  much  ardor  was  in  her 
face,  pale  as  it  was — that  Aurora  Lane,  seeing  and  know 
ing  much,  all  with  a  sudden  wrench  of  her  own  heart, 
withdrew  silently,  thankful  that  Miss  Julia  had  not 
known. 

"Miss  Julia's  tired,"  said  she  to  her  companions,  who 
still  stood  waiting  at  the  entry  way.  "We'll  not  disturb 
her  tonight,  Don,  after  all.  I  know  she  wants  to  see  you. 
You  can  imagine  she  has  a  thousand  things  to  talk  about 
— books,  pictures,  everything.  But  tonight  we'll  just  go 
on  home.  We'll  come  again  tomorrow." 

The  people  of  Spring  Valley  scattered  this  way  and 
that  from  the  classical  front  of  the  Carnegie  Library. 
They  passed  away  in  long  streams  in  each  direction  on 
the  street,  which,  arched  across  in  places  by  the  wide 

1 02 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


branches  of  the  soft  maples,  lay  half  lighted  by  the  moon, 
and  yet  more  by  the  flickering  arc  light  sputtering  at  the 
top  of  its  mast  at  the  corner  of  the  public  square,  which 
made  the  shadows  sheer  black.  So  close  did  the  trees 
stand  to  the  street  that  the  summer  wind  could  not  get 
through  them  to  lighten  the  pall  of  the  night's  sultri 
ness. 

In  Spring  Valley  the  climate  in  the  summer  time  was 
at  times  so  balefully  hot  that  common  folk  were  forced 
to  take  the  mattress  from  the  bed  and  spread  it  on  the 
floor  at  the  front  door  in  order  to  get  a  partial  breath  of 
air.  The  atmosphere  was  close  and  heavy  under  the 
trees  tonight,  and  some  commented  on  the  fact  as  they 
passed  on  toward  the  public  square  where  yet  further 
separations  of  the  scattered  groups  must  ensue. 

They  passed  along  a  street  lined  by  residence  houses, 
some  small,  others  large,  all  hedged  about  with  shrubs 
or  trees,  all  with  little  flower  beds ;  a  certain  conformity 
to  accepted  canons  in  good  taste  being  exacted  of  all 
who  dwelt  in  the  village.  Each  one  of  this  dispersing 
assemblage  knew  his  neighbor,  and  all  the  other  neigh 
bors  of  the  town.  This  was  general  plebiscite.  More 
over,  it  seemed  to  have  a  certain  purpose — an  ultimate 
purpose  of  justice. 

This  was  the  actual  jury  of  peers — this  long  stream  of 
halting,  hesitating  figures  who  at  midnight  strolled  on 
across  the  patch-work  shadows  of  the  maples.  And  be- 

103 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


fore  it  had  come  on  for  trial  the  case  of  Aurora  Lane 
and  her  unfathered  boy. 

"Look  at  them  go!"  said  Old  Hod  Brooks,  chuckling 
bitterly  to  himself  as  he  and  his  companions  turned  to 
ward  the  public  square,  this  same  thought  occurring  to 
him.  "For  instance,  there's  an  even  dozen  just  ahead  of 
us  now,  if  we  cared  to  poll  them." 

Had  this  jury  been  polled  it  might  have  been  found  in 
some  part  resembling  the  original  concourse  which  filled 
Noah's  ark,  since  for  the  most  part  they  walked  two  and 
two.  Ben  McQuaid,  traveling  salesman — the  deadly  rival 
of  Jerome  Westbrook  in  matters  of  fashion — who  trav 
eled  out  of  Chicago  but  had  his  home  in  Spring  Valley, 
because  it  was  cheaper  living  there — walked  now  arm  in 
arm  with  Newman,  the  clothing  merchant  of  the  Golden 
Eagle.  He  inquired  solicitously  as  to  the  condition  of 
business.  Newman  said  he  "gouldn't  gomplaim,  though 
gollections  mide  be  better."  But  that  was  not  in  the 
least  what  both  were  thinking  of  at  that  time. 

"Seems  like  there  was  a  little  rukus  on  the  square 
today,"  said  McQuaid  casually.  "I  just  heard  of  it — 
Number  Four  come  in  a  little  late  today." 

"Veil,  yes,"  said  Newman,  looking  around  to  see  that 
he  might  not  be  heard.  "I  ain't  saying  a  vord  about  it — 
but  listen,  that  kid  has  the  punch  in  either  hand — the  last 
time  you  should  have  seen  it — you  see,  they  got  at  k  twice 

now  already " 

104 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


They  drew  apart,  because  they  now  saw  approaching 
them  too  closely  at  the  rear  two  of  the  ministers  of  the 
gospel.  These  found  themselves  none  too  happily  as 
sorted. 

"I  enjoyed  your  remarks  very  much  indeed,  Brother 
Burnham,"  said  Reverend  Fullerton,  with  a  mendacity 
for  which  no  doubt  the  recording  angel  dropped  a  suit 
able  tear.  "I  agree  with  you  that  the  tendency  towards 
looseness  of  living  in  modern  life " 

Reverend  Fullerton  coughed  ominously.  Anyone  very 
close  to  him  might  have  heard  half-whispered  words  of 
"brazen  exhibition"  and  "necessity  of  public  measures." 

But  these  did  not  speak  freely,  because  close  behind 
them  came  yet  two — Dr.  Arthur  Bowling,  the  homeo 
pathic  physician,  who  somewhat  against  his  will  had 
fallen  into  the  company  of  Miss  Elvira  Sonsteby.  Now, 
Miss  Elvira  Sonsteby  was  the  town's  professional  in 
valid.  She  tried  regularly  all  the  doctors  in  turn  as  they 
arrived.  It  was  well  known  of  all  that  she  had  suffered 
all  the  diseases  ever  known  to  man,  as  well  as  many  of 
which  no  man  ever  had  known.  Just  now,  with  much 
eagerness,  she  was  explaining  to  Dr.  Bowling  that  she 
feared  her  neuritis  had  become  complicated  with  valvular 
heart  trouble,  and  that  she  suspected  gall  stones  as  well. 
As  to  her  rheumatism,  of  course  she  had  long  since  given 

up  all  hope  of  that — but  this  trouble  in  her  arm ; 

and  much  other  conversation  extremely  painful  to  Dr. 

105 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Bowling  at  that  time,  because  he  was  much  possessed 
of  the  inclination  to  step  forward  a  few  paces  and  walk 
with  Sally  Lester,  the  banker's  daughter.  But  even  they 
hit  common  ground  of  converse  when  Miss  Sonsteby 
voiced  her  belief  that  it  was  an  outrage  for  a  public 
personage  like  a  certain  milliner  she  could  name  if  she 
cared  to  say,  to  appear  in  public  on  an  occasion  such  as 
this,  when  only  the  most  refined  personages  of  the  town 
should  have  been  invited. 

"I  am  sure,"  said  she  in  tense  tones  to  the  young  doc 
tor,  "that  although  alone  in  the  world  myself — not  so  old 
as  some  would  try  to  make  me  out,  either — I  would  die 
rather  than  have  anyone  voice  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
blame  against  me — the  slightest  blemish  on  my  name. 
Now,  that  woman  ..." 

Back  of  these  two  came  yet  others.  Old  Mr.  Rawlins 
had  gently  said  his  farewells  to  Aurora  and  her  son  when 
they  emerged  upon  the  open  street,  and  as  he  advanced 
passed  certain  of  these  groups,  until  presently  he  fell  in 
with  none  less  than  Miss  Hattie  Clarkson,  soprano  and 
elocutionist  of  Spring  Valley,  who  had  favored  the  as 
semblage  that  evening  with  two  selections,  but  who,  it 
seemed,  was  not  wholly  satisfied. 

"It  seemed  to  me,  Mr.  Rawlins,"  said  she,  throwing 
about  her  shoulders  the  light  scarf  of  tulle  which  she 
always  wore  when  entertaining  professionally — "that  the 
exercises  rather  dragged  tonight.  Of  course,  we  know 

106 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


what  to  expect  when  Judge  Henderson  speaks — he's  very 
entertaining,  to  be  sure.  But  it  seemed  to  me  that  had 
there  been  a  selection  or  two  more  of  elocutionary  sort 

it  might  have  lightened  up  the  evening Who  is  that 

coming  just  back  of  us?"  she  whispered,  looking  back 
over  her  shoulder. 

"That's  Aurora  Lane,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Rawlins, 
quietly.  "Her  son  is  with  her." 

"Indeed !" 

"Yes,  indeed !  There's  one  of  the  best  women  I  ever 
knew,  my  dear." 

Miss  Clarkson  drew  herself  up  proudly,  and  bent  upon 
him  an  icy  glance.  By  now  they  had  approached  the  cor 
ner  of  public  square.  "I  think  I  must  say  good  night, 
Mr.  Rawlins !"  said  she,  with  icy  emphasis. 

"Good  night,  my  dear,"  said  the  old  minister,  sighing. 

Not  far  ahead  of  Ben  McQuaid  and  merchant  New 
man  walked  two  other  citizens,  J.  B.  Saunders,  leading 
grocer  and  prominent  Knight  Templar,  and  Nels  Jorgens, 
village  blacksmith — the  same  whose  shop  was  across  the 
way  from  the  home  of  Aurora  Lane.  It  was  said  of  Mr. 
Saunders  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  surprise  him 
at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  when  he  was  not  in  his 
uniform  of  a  Knight  Templar,  or  carrying  his  sword 
case  and  hat.  For  some  reasons  best  known  to  himself, 
and  anticipating  all  possible  surprises,  he  had  taken  with 
him  to  the  meeting  this  evening  the  two  latter  accessories 

107 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


of  his  wardrobe,  which  now  he  carried  as  he  walked  on  in 
conversation. 

His  neighbor  wore  an  alpaca  coat  and  no  necktie  what 
ever — a  reticent,  gray- whiskered  man,  whose  bank  ac 
count  had  a  goodliness  perhaps  not  to  be  suspected  from 
first  look  at  its  owner.  The  two  talked  of  many  things, 
but  naturally  came  around  to  the  only  topic  which  was 
in  the  mind  of  all. 

"What'll  he  do — old  Eph  Adamson,"  asked  Saunders. 
"It  looks  like  he  couldn't  stand  for  what's  been  handed 
to  him.  That  young  fellow  has  pounded  him  up  a  couple 
of  times.  If  I  was  Adamson  I  certainly  would  have  the 
law  on  him  good  and  plenty." 

"Well,"  said  Old  Man  Jorgens,  comfortably,  "I  don't 
know  much  about  it  anyway,  but  it  looks  to  me  Adamson 
has  got  pretty  near  enough  already.  He  pays  a  lawyer 
to  get  him  clear,  and  when  he  gets  out  of  that  court  al 
ready  he  gets  licked  once  more  again.  And  he  knows  the 
boy  can  lick  him." 

"You  think  he'll  like  enough  lick  him  again  ?" 

"Yeh,  that's  like  enough,  yeh.  I  heard  things  have 
been  said  of  his  mother  by  Adamson.  Oh,  yes,  the  news 
is  out  now — she  couldn't  hide  it  no  more  now — there  is 
the  boy  she  said  was  dead.  But,  you  know,  after  all,  my 
friend,  a  mother  is  a  mother,  and  men  is  men.  When 
they  say  things  of  how  we  was  born,  you  would  fought, 
I  hope?  Me,  I  hope  too.  No  man  likes  to  hear  his 

108 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


mother  called  of  names.     And  she  is  his  mother.     Too 
bad  it  is — a  bad  business  all  around." 

"But  then — why,  Nels,  we  know " 

"Yes,  we  all  know,"  said  Jorgens  stolidly.  "I  know 
and  you  know,  and  we  all  know.  And  what  I  know  is 
this : — For  twenty  years  she  lives  across  the  street  from 
me,  as  straight  and  as  good  a  woman  as  anyone  in  this 
town — each  first  day  of  the  month  right  in  my  hand  here 
she  pays  the  rent,  not  a  month  missed  in  twenty  years. 
I  rather  rent  a  house  to  her  as  to  any  business  man  in 
this  town,  and  I  say  she  is  straight  as  any  woman  in  this 
town !  No  man  goes  there,  not  any  more  now  in  twenty 
years.  The  man  who  meets  her  on  the  public  street  he 
takes  his  hat  off — now.  Her  boy — well,  he  looks  citified 
to  me,  but  at  least  he  can  fight.  Yeh,  I  vote  he  was  in 
the  right.  Tomorrow  my  wife  shall  take  some  more  eggs 
to  Aurora  Lane  in  her  house ;  yeh,  and  coffee." 

There  were  two  other  members  of  the  unpolled  jury, 
and  they  paused  now  in  the  full  light  which  came  from 
tli£  mast  at  the  corner  of  the  public  square.  Judge  Hen 
derson,  weaned  by  the  exertions  of  the  evening,  was  dis 
posed  to  ascend  the  stair  to  his  own  office  in  search  of  a 
manner  of  refreshment  which  he  well  knew  he  would 
find  there.  Turning  in  this  laudable  enterprise  he  met 
face  to  face  the  city  marshal,  Old  Man  Tarbush,  who 
halted  him  for  a  moment's  speech,  drawing  him  apart  to 
the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 

109 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"I  just  thought  I'd  ask  you,  Judge,  since  I  see  you," 
said  Tarbush,  "whether  you  think  I  done  right  or  not." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Marshal,"  inquired  the  judge, 
none  too  happy  at  being  interrupted. 

"You  know  how  it  was.  He  licked  Old  Man  Adamson 
again  right  at  the  foot  of  the  stair,  before  the  record 
of  his  trial  was  hardly  dry  on  the  books.  It  was  unlaw 
ful,  of  course.  I  didn't  arrest  him  no  more,  because  I 
seen  what  had  happened  in  the  other  trial.  You  pulled 
out  of  that.  I  didn't  want  to  make  no  needless  expense 
for  the  county.  But  I  been  sort  of  uneasy  in  my  mind 
about  it,  and  I  just  thought  I'd  ask  you." 

"Exactly,  exactly,"  rejoined  Judge  Henderson.  "Well, 
now,  Tarbush,  come  to  think  it  over,  that  matter  came 
up  for  trial,  and  we  concluded  the  best  thing  to  do  was 
to  sort  of  let  things  take  their  course — you  see,  the  young 
man  in  all  likelihood  will  leave  town  very  soon.  In  the 
conduct  of  my  own  affairs  I  sometimes  have  seen  that 
it  is  well  enough  not  to  stir  things  up.  Leave  them  alone, 
and  sometimes  they  will  smooth  themselves  down." 

"Then  you  wouldn't  run  him  in  if  you  was  me?" 

"No,  I  think  not,  I  think  not.  Let  it  go  for  the  time. 
Perhaps  there  may  be  further  developments,  but  with 
such  information  as  I  have  at  hand  now,  I  would  be  dis 
posed  to  approve  your  conduct.  There's  nothing  like 
letting  bygones  be  bygones  in  this  world — isn't  that  the 
truth?" 

no 


AT  MIDNIGHT 


"But  now,  about  the  eejit,  Johnnie,"  resumed  the  city 
marshal  once  more,  reaching  out  his  hand  still  to  detain 
the  other,  "I  don't  know  as  I  done  right  about  him, 
neither." 

"What  have  you  done  then,  Tarbush?" 

"Well,  I  let  him  go.  You  see,  I  don't  know  but  maybe 
the  habeas  chorus  proceedings  would  be  squashed  like  the 
rest.  Besides,  the  eejit  boy  has  been  raising  all  kinds  of 
hell  down  at  the  jail,  raving  and  shouting  and  threaten 
ing  me.  About  a  hour  ago  or  less  I  concluded  to  let  him 
loose,  so  as  to  get  shut  of  him." 

"You  did  let  him  go?    And  he  was  not  discharged?" 

"Well,  now,  what's  the  difference,  Judge,"  said  the 
old  man.  "We  couldn't  really  get  no  sleep  down  there, 
he  was  making  so  much  fuss,  so  I  just  let  him  out.  He 
lit  out  upon  the  street  right  thataway,  towards  home — 
not  so  very  long  ago." 

Judge  Henderson  gazed  moodily  in  the  direction  to 
which  Tarbush  pointed. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "maybe  you  did  right,  and  in  any  case 
this  isn't  the  time  and  place  to  discuss  it.  My  profes 
sional  hours" — and  he  turned  away  and  walked  slowly 
up  the  stairs  to  his  own  office,  intent  upon  the  purpose 
already  prominent  in  his  mind. 

The  arc  light  illumined  fully  the  great  town  clock  in 
the  cupola  of  the  courthouse.  The  hands  pointed  to  a 
quarter  of  one,  after  midnight. 

in 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


The  deliberations  of  the  jury  of  Spring  Valley  might 
have  been  said  to  have  concluded  at  the  time  when  Au 
rora  Lane,  her  son  Don,  and  old  Hod  Brooks — the  last 
group  of  the  slow  procession — themselves  turned  the 
corner  and  emerged  upon  the  public  square.  The  mat 
ter  of  bringing  in  the  verdict  was  another  affair. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  EXTRAORDINARY  HORACE  BROOKS 

SOMETHING  made  Aurora  Lane  uneasy.  She 
turned  now  and  extended  her  hand  to  the  tall  man 
who  walked  at  her  side.  "Good  night,  Mr  Brooks," 
said  she. 

But  old  Hod  Brooks  only  put  his  hands  deeper  in  his 
pockets  and  slouched  on  alongside.  "I'll  just  go  on 
along  with  you  to  the  gate.  It's  hot  tonight,  isn't  it? 
I  don't  know  when  we've  had  such  a  spell." 

She  could  not  well  dismiss  him  now,  so  indeed  the 
three  walked  yet  a  while  together. 

Don  Lane  still  was  silent,  moody.  There  was  little 
of  the  Jesuit  in  his  own  frank  soul.  He  knew  nothing 
of  dissembling,  and  had  no  art  of  putting  a  good  face 
upon  a  bad  matter.  All  these  complications  which  so 
swiftly  had  come  into  his  life  seemed  to  him  only  a 
terrible  and  overwhelming  thing  in  the  total.  The  mor 
row  was  coming  for  him — nay,  it  already  was  at  hand, 
and  he  knew  what  that  must  bring  of  additional  grief. 
Anne!  Anne!  He  must  tell  her.  He  must  leave  her. 
Never  in  all  his  care-free  life  had  he  been  so  wretched, 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


so  miserable,  as  he  was  now.  Moreover,  for  reasons 
he  could  not  stifle  he  did  not  like  the  presence  of  Brooks 
here,  even  though  he  and  his  mother  must  acknowledge 
the  debt  under  which  he  had  laid  them  that  day. 

"I'll  tell  you,  Mother,"  said  he  after  a  time,  when  he 
had  turned  off  the  square  into  their  own  street.  "Just 
excuse  me  for  a  few  minutes,  won't  you?  It's  so 
hot  and  stuffy  that  I  don't  feel  that  I  can  sleep.  I'll 
just  take  a  little  run  down  the  street,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"But  why,  Don?"  she  inquired. 

"You  see,  I've  always  been  used  to  keeping  fit,  and 
I  don't  like  to  break  my  training — we  always  had  to 
exercise  in  college,  on  the  teams.  I  don't  feel  good 
when  I  don't.  I'm  used  to  doing  my  half  mile  or  so 
every  night  just  before  I  go  to  sleep." 

"Huh!"  said  Old  Hod  Brooks,  looking  at  the  young 
man  appraisingly.  "So  that's  how  you  keep  in  training, 
eh?  Well,  it  seems  to  work  all  right!"  His  sudden 
gusty  laughter  sounded  loud  in  the  night,  but  it  lacked 
the  note  of  ease. 

"Go  on,  go  on,"  he  added — "as  you  get  older  maybe 
you'll  find  it  takes  all  your  gimp  to  take  care  of  your 
mind  and  your  money,  and  you'll  let  your  body  just 
about  take  care  of  itself.  But  go  ahead — I'll  just  walk 
on  down  with  your  mother." 

"Don't  be  long,  Don,"  said  Aurora  Lane;  and  she 

114 


HORACE  BROOKS 


meant  it,  for  she  felt  uneasy  at  thus  being  accompanied 
to  her  own  gate,  a  thing  unknown  in  her  history.  She 
was  glad  that  old  Nels  Jorgens,  on  ahead,  had  just  turned 
in  at  his  own  gate. 

Don  Lane  trotted  off  slowly,  with  long  elastic  stride, 
up  on  his  toes,  with  his  elbows  tucked  in  and  his  chin 
high,  filling  his  lungs  as  best  he  might  with  the  hot 
and  lifeless  air.  The  sound  of  his  footfalls  passed  down 
the  street,  and  was  lost  as  he  turned  at  the  further  cor 
ner  of  the  square. 

"Good  night,  now,"  said  Aurora  Lane  once  more,  as 
she  and  her  companion  approached  her  little  gate. 

But  Hod  Brooks  did  not  turn  away,  although  he  made 
no  attempt  to  enter.  Instead  he  reached  out  a  large 
hand  impulsively  and  arrested  hers  as  it  would  have 
pulled  together  the  little  crippled  gate  behind  her.  Still 
she  did  close  the  gate — until  the  sudden  impact  of  his 
own  weight  snapped  off  its  last  remaining  hinge.  He 
picked  it  up  carelessly  and  set  it  within  the  fence,  him 
self  leaning  against  the  post,  filling  the  gap,  his  hands 
back  in  his  pockets. 

"Aurora,"  said  he,  with  a  strange  softness  in  his 
voice,  "this  seems  to  me  almost  like  Providence." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  said.     "I  must  go " 

"Please,  not  yet,"  said  he.  "Just  think — how  else 
could  it  have  been  possible  for  me  to  talk  with 
you?" 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Without  compromising  yourself  ?"  She  smiled  slowly 
and  bitterly,  but  did  not  see  the  hot  blood  rise  to  his 
face. 

"That's  not  right!"  said  he.  "Without  compromising 
you — that's  what  I  meant.  I  only  meant  that  there  is 
no  place  where  we  well  could  meet.  And  I  wanted  to 
say  something  to  you,  at  last — what  sometime  has  got 
to  be  said  between  us." 

"We  both  know  everything  now,  so  why  talk?"  said 
she.  "It  was  fine  of  you  today  in  the  trial.  We  owe 
so  much — we'll  pay  when  we  can." 

The  dull  red  in  his  face  deepened.  "You  may  stop 
that,  if  you  please,"  said  he.  "It's  not  right  between 
us.  The  showdown  has  come.  Why  not  settle  up,  at 
last?" 

She  turned,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  unwilling  to 
leave  him  standing  there. 

"It's  been  years,  Aurora.  Now,  listen — I'm  going  on 
up  in  the  world  myself,  at  last.  I  want  to  take  you 
with  me.  I  didn't  want  to  say  anything  till  the  right 
time.  It's  been  a  long,  hard  pull  for  me,  too,  here  in 
this  town.  It's  hard  for  men  like  me  to  talk." 

"You  mustn't  talk,"  said  she.  "You  mustn't  say  a 
word — you  mustn't  be  seen  here  even." 

He  looked  at  her  slowly.  "I'm  here  deliberately,"  said 
he.  "Listen  now — I  must  tell  you  some  things,  Aurora. 
I've  loved  you  from  the  first  day  I  saw  you.  Can't  you 

116 


HORACE  BROOKS 


credit  me  at  least  a  little  ?  You're  splendid — you're  beau 
tiful — and  you're  good." 

She  choked  a  bit,  raised  a  hand  in  swift  protest. 

"You're  still  young,  Aurora,"  said  he,  not  paying  at 
tention  to  what  she  said.  "Of  course  I'm  older,  but 
there's  a  lot  of  time  left  yet  for  you  and  me — a  lot 
of  living.  You've  had  mighty  little  out  of  life,  here 
by  yourself.  Now  I've  stood  it  as  long  as  I  can.  Since 
the  whole  truth  about  the  boy  has  broken  out  today 
and  can't  ever  be  covered  up  again,  it  seemed  to  me  I 
just;  had  to  tell  you  that  you  needed  me  to  take  care 
of  you — someone  more  than  just  yourself.  Things  may 
go  harder  for  you  now.  They've  been  hard  enough  al 
ready.  You  need  help.  Who  more  natural  to  help  you 
than  myself,  feeling  as  I  have,  as  I  do  ?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  talk  that  way!"  Her  voice  trem 
bled.  "You  must  go  on  away.  I'm  not — good " 

"You're  good  enough  for  me — good  as  I  am,  surely — 
and  I  want  to  get  into  this  game  with  you  now.  You 
need  me.  That  means  we've  got  to  be  married.  Oh,  the 
boy's  fine,  yes,  but  he'll  be  going  away.  You  need 
a  man — a  husband — someone  you  can  depend  on,  Au 
rora.  Isn't  there  anything  welcome  in  that  thought  for 
you?  Aurora,  I  want  to  marry  you — at  once,  right 
away.  I  say  that  right  now  and  here." 

Aurora  Lane  looked  this  way  and  that,  every  way. 
Her  gaze  happened  to  go  down  the  long  vista  beneath 

117 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  maples,  to  fall  upon  the  face  of  the  town  clock  on 
the  courthouse.  The  hour  hand  with  a  short  jerk  moved 
forward  and  the  deep  note  of  the  bell  boomed  out — 
it  was  one  o'clock  of  the  night ;  and  all  was  not  well. 

She  turned  as  she  felt  the  tense  grasp  of  his  great 
knotted  hands  still  upon  her  own. 

"You  say  that — to  me "  she  managed  to  say  at  last. 

"Why,  everybody  knows — all  the  town  knows "  Her 

voice  shook.  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to  leave  here  now 
after  what's  happened.  But  you'd  have  to  leave  if  you 
took  up  with  such  as  me — even  this  late,  it  would  ruin 
you.  Don't  you  think  of  your  own  prospects?  Why, 
I  couldn't  marry  you,  no  matter  how  much  I  loved  you." 

"You  don't  love  me  at  all?" 

"How  could  I?" 

"That's  true,"  said  he  simply.     "How  could  you?" 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  she  corrected  herself  hastily. 

"It's  just  what  I  said,"  he  rejoined.  "This  seems 
providential  to  me.  I  can't  allow  these  people  to  mur 
der  you  a  dozen  times  a  week  the  way  they  will  do  now. 
You  can't  make  this  fight  alone  any  more,  Aurora — I 
can't  any  longer  bear  to  see  you  try  it.  It's  all  out 
now.  It's  going  to  be  harder  for  you  after  this." 

She  did  not  make  any  answer  to  him  at  all,  but  she 
heard  his  big  voice  murmuring  on. 

"I  reckon  it's  love,  after  all,  Aurora — I  don't  know. 
I  don't  know  much  about  women.  I  just  feel  as  though 

118 


HORACE  BROOKS 


I  had  to  take  care  of  you — I  feel  as  though  you  ought 
to  depend  on  me.  Can't  you  believe  that?" 

"I  ought  not  to  believe  that  of  any  man,"  she  broke 
out. 

"Like  enough,  like  enough,"  he  nodded,  "but  you've 
known  only  one  man — that's  your  full  horizon.  Now, 
having  had  so  hard  a  fight  in  business,  I  have  put  marry 
ing  to  one  side.  Let's  not  say  that  we're  both  young — 
for  we're  not.  But  let's  remember  what  I  told  you — 
there's  a  lot  of  life  left  for  you  and  me  yet  if  you'll 
only  say  the  word.  Don't  you  want  to  make  anybody 
happy?" 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that  to  me !"  said  Aurora  Lane. 
"But  you  would  want  me  to  be  honest,  wouldn't  you? 
You  wouldn't  want  me  to  lie?  Somehow,  I've  never 
learned  to  lie  very  much." 

"No,"  said  he  simply;  "no,  I  reckon  not.  You  never 
have." 

"No  matter  what -" 

"No  matter  what." 

"Then  tell  me,  how  could  I  say  I  loved  you  now  ?  For 
twenty  years — all  my  life — I  have  put  that  thought  away 
from  me.  I'm  old  and  cold  now.  My  heart's  ashes,  that 
part,  can't  you  understand?  And  you're  a  man." 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  "I'm  a  man.  That's  so,  Aurora. 
But  now  you're  just  troubled.  You've  not  had  time  to 
think.  I've  held  my  secret,  too.  I've  never  spoken  out 

119 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


to  you  before.  I  tell  you,  you're  too  good  a  woman 
to  be  lost— that  isn't  right." 

"You  pity  me!" 

"Maybe.    But  I  want  to  marry  you,  Aurora." 

"What  could  I  do — what  could  be  done — where  would 
you  have  any  pay  in  that?" 

"Don't  trouble  about  the  pay.  How  much  have  the 
past  twenty  years  paid  you?" 

"Little  enough,"  said  she  bitterly,  "little  enough. 
About  all  they've  given  me — about  all  I've  got  left — is 
the  boy.  But  -I  want  to  play  fair." 

"That's  it,"  said  he.  "So  do  I.  That's  why  I  tell 
you  you're  too  good  for  me,  when  it  comes  to  that,  after 
all." 

"Why,  it  would  all  have  to  come  out — one  way  or 
the  other.  It  all  has  come  out,  as  you  say.  We  couldn't 
evade  that  now — it's  too  late.  Here's  the  proof — Dieu- 
donne — and  I  can't  deny  him." 

He  nodded  gravely.     She  went  on: 

"Everyone  knows  about  the  boy  now — everybody 
knows  he's — got  no  father.  That's  my  boy.  Too  late 
now  to  explain — he's  ruined  all  that  by  coming  here. 
And  yet  you  ask  me  to  marry  you.  If  I  did,  one  of 
two  things  surely  would  be  said,  and  either  of  them 
would  make  you  wretched  all  your  life." 

He  turned  to  her  and  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"They  might  say  I  was  the  father?" 

120 


HORACE  BROOKS 


She  nodded,  flushing  painfully.  "They  might  guess. 
And  a  few  might  think  that  after  all  these  years " 

"Maybe,"  said  he  slowly.  "But  you  see,  after  all, 
it's  only  a  theoretical  hurt  I'm  taking  if  I  stand  be 
tween  you  and  these  damned  harpies  here.  They're  go 
ing  to  torture  you,  Aurora,  going  to  flay  and  burn  you 
alive.  I'd  like  to  do  about  anything  I  could  for  you, 
anything  a  man  can  in  such  a  ease  as  ours.  As  for  sac 
rifice — why,  whatever  you  think  I  think  of  you,  I  belkve 
we  can  both  call  it  sure  that  I  want  to  stand  between 
you  and  the  world.  I  want  to  have  the  right  to  take 
care  of  you.  It's  what  I  want  to  do — must  do.  I've 
waited  too  long.  But  it's  what  I  always  have  intended. 
You'd  never  let  me.  I  never  seemed  to  get  around  to 
it  before.  But  now " 

"Impossible!"  she  whispered,  white,  her  great  eyes 
somber.  "There  is  no  way.  Love  of  man  has  gone 
by  for  me.  It  knocked  once.  It  has  gone  by." 

"Wait  now,  let  us  go  on  with  the  argument  just  a 
little  further,  my  dear!"  said  he  gently. 

"We  have  argued  too  long  already,"  she  said  faintly. 
"You  must  go.  Please  go — please  don't  talk  to  me. 
You  must  not." 

"I  wish  I  could  agree  with  you,"  said  he,  disturbed 
and  frowning,  "because  I  don't  want  to  make  you  any 
more  unhappy.  But  listen,  it  just  seemed  to  me  that  this 
was  providential — I  had  to  come  to  you  and  tell  you  what 

121 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


I  have  told  you  tonight.     Why,  widows  remarry — time 
and  again  widows  marry." 

"Yes,  widows!"  He  could  barely  hear  the  sob  which 
she  stifled  in  her  throat. 

"Well,  then,"  said  he,  "how  about  you  and  me?  I 
don't  think  it's  a  fair  argument,  but  I  ought  to  point 
out  to  you  that  perhaps  I've  got  a  chance  in  the  world. 
They  wanted  me,  for  instance,  to  make  the  run  for 
the  senatorship — against  Judge  Henderson.  Today  I 
agreed  with  him  not  to  accept  the  candidacy.  In  re 
turn  he  agreed  to  drop  that  case  against  Don.  Well, 
you've  traded  me  out  of  the  United  States  Senate, 
Aurora.  But  I  made  that  trade — for  you  and  the  boy." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  sudden  astonishment.  She 
could  not  evade  the  feeling  of  shelter  in  his  great  pres 
ence  as  he  stood  there,  speaking  calmly,  absolutely  in 
hand,  a  grotesque  and  yet  a  great  soul — yes,  a  great 
soul  as  it  seemed  to  her,  so  used  to  littler  souls.  After 
all,  she  never  really  had  known  this  man.  Sacrifice? 
Had  he  not  given  freely,  as  a  sacrifice,  the  greatest  gift 
a  man  has — his  hope  for  power  and  preferment?  And 
he  spoke  of  it  as  though  it  were  a  little  thing.  Aurora 
Lane  was  large  enough  to  know  a  large  act,  belittled 
though  it  were  by  the  doer  of  the  deed. 

"You  see,"  he  began,  "we're  old  enough  perhaps  to 
talk  plainly,  plainer  than  young  folks  can — mostly  I  pre 
sume  they  don't  talk  at  all — but  I  may  talk  plainly  ?" 

122 


HORACE  BROOKS 


"Oh,  yes,"  said  she,  sighing.  "I  suppose  we've  made 
that  certain." 

"Now,  now,  don't  say  that — nothing  of  the  sort,  my 
dear.  Your  past  is  out  of  this  question  altogether. 
You're  a  widow,  that's  all.  Your  unknown  husband  is 
dead — he  is  unknown,  but  he  is  dead.  That's  the  record, 
and  accepted  here.  And  isn't  that  our  solution — the 
only  one  in  all  the  world  possible  for  us?" 

She  did  not  answer  at  all. 

"The  boy  and  I — I  reckon  the  two  of  us  could  keep 
most  of  the  people  in  this  town  or  in  this  world  attend 
ing  to  their  own  business,  and  not  bothering  about  ours. 
Don't  you  believe  that,  Aurora?  We've  made  a  start— 
a  sort  of  preliminary  demonstration  already." 

But  still  she  did  not  answer,  and,  agonized  now,  he 
went  on: 

"I'm  a  plain  man,  Aurora,  pretty  ignorant,  I  expect. 
I  didn't  come  from  anywhere — there's  no  family  much 
back  of  me — I  have  had  really  very  little  schooling,  and 
I've  had  to  fight  my  own  way.  I  can't  play  bridge — I 
don't  know  one  card  from  another.  I  don't  dance — 
there's  no  human  being  could  ever  teach  a  dance  step 
to  me.  I've  never  been  in  society,  because  I  don't  be 
long  there.  But,  as  I  said,  I've  got  some  standards  of 
a  man  and  some  feelings  of  a  man.  I  love  you  a  lot 
more  than  you  can  tell  from  what  I've  said,  or  what 
I've  done.  It'll  be  a  great  deal  more  to  you  than  you 

123 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


can  believe  now.  I'll  do  a  great  deal  more  for  you 
than  you  can  realize.  I'll  give  you  at  last — later  than 
I  ought  to  have  done  it — something  you've  never  had — 
your  life — your  chance  in  the  world — your  chance  at  real 
love  and  real  affection  and  real  loyalty.  You've  never 
had  that,  Aurora.  I  couldn't  offer  it,  for  I  had  my  own 
secret  to  keep,  and  my  own  fight  to  make.  But  love 
and  loyalty — they'd  be  sweet,  wouldn't  they?" 

She  bent  her  head  down  upon  her  hands,  which  lay 
folded  at  the  top  of  the  pickets  of  the  little  fence. 

"Sweet — sweet — yes,  yes!"  he  heard  her  murmur. 

"Well,  then,  why  not  end  the  argument  ?"  he  said. 
"Why,  I've  seen  you  here,  all  these  years.  I  know 
every  hair  of  your  head.  I  have  come  really  to  love 
you,  all  of  you,  as  a  man  ought  to  love  his  wife.  I 
can't  resist  it — it's  an  awful  thing.  I  don't  think  I'll 
forget — it's  too  late  in  life  for  me  to  begin  over  again, 
it's  you  or  nothing  for  me.  There's  never  been  any  other 
woman  for  me — and  that  ought  at  least  to  speak  for 
me.  There's  been  no  other  man  for  you.  So  why  not 
end  it?  The  world's  been  cruel  enough  for  you  as  it 
is.  I'll  not  say  it  hasn't  been  cruel  to  me,  too.  I've  sat 
tight  and  eaten  my  heart.  I've  had  to  fight,  too.  But 
don't  I  understand  you,  your  fight,  what  it  means  to 
buck  a  game  where  all  the  cards  are  stacked?  Don't 
I  know?" 

"It  has  been  cruel,  yes,"  said  she  at  length,  finding 

124 


HORACE  BROOKS 


herself  able  to  speak,  "but  it  seems  it  has  not  been 
quite  so  cruel  as  it  could  be  until — until  now." 

"Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?    Am  I  cruel  ?    Why -?" 

"You  said — you  said  something  about  my  being  a 
widow." 

He  nodded.  "Yes.  I  pick  you  up  now — it's  as  though 
I  find  you  new — I  know  you  now  at  a  later  stage  alto 
gether  in  your  life.  You've  grown.  I  see  you  as  new 
and  fresh  as  though  you  were  just  risen  from  the  sea. 
.  .  .  And  all  the  past  is  nothing  to  me." 

"You  must  not  talk,"  said  she,  "because  it  only  fe  to 
make  us  both  the  more  unhappy.  You  are  quixotic 
enough,  or  great  enough — I  don't  know  which — I  can't 
tell  which  it  is — to  say  you'd  take  the  shame  on  your 
own  shoulders  in  order  to  take  it  off  of  mine!  You 
can't  mean  that !  No !  no !  One  life  ruined  is  enough 
— you've  ruined  yours  enough  now,  today,  by  what 
you've  done  for  Don  and  me." 

He  seemed  not  to  hear  her. 

"I've  watched  you  all  these  years,  and  you've  lived 
like  a  recluse,  like  a  widow.  I  can't  reproach  you. 
God !  Which  of  us  may  first  cast  a  stone  ?" 

Aurora  Lane  turned  to  him  now  a  brave  face,  the 
same  brave  face  she  had  turned  to  the  world  all  these 
years. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  "if  only  I  had  learned  to  lie !  Maybe 
some  women  could  lie  to  you.  And  women  get  so  tired 

125 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


— so  awfully  tired  sometimes — I  couldn't  blame  them. 
I  might  marry  you,  yes — I  believe  I  could.  But  I  would 
never  lie  to  you — I  won't  lie  to  you  now." 

"What  are  you  going  to  say  to  me,  Aurie?" 

"What  I'm  going  to  say  to  all  the  world !  I've  never 
been  married  to  anyone  and  can't  be  now.  It  would 
be  more  horrible  to  me  than — that  other.  It's  too 
late.  It — it  means  too  much  to  me — marriage — mar 
riage — marriage!  Don't — don't — you  mustn't  say  some 
things  to  a  woman.  Oh,  if  all  this  had  happened  twenty 
years  ago,  when  I  was  young,  I  might  have  been  weak 
enough  to  listen  to  what  you  say.  I  was  weak  and 
frightened  then — I  didn't  know  how  I'd  ever  get  on — 
all  life  was  a  terror  to  me.  But  that  was  twenty  years 
ago.  I've  made  my  fight  now,  and  I've  learned  that 
after  a  fashion  at  least  I  could  get  on — I  did — I  have. 
I  can  go  on  through  alone  the  rest  of  the  way,  and 
it's  right  that  I  should.  That's  what  I'm  going  to 
do!" 

She  saw  the  great  hand  clutch  the  more  tightly  on 
two  picket  tops.  They  broke  under  the  closing  grip  of 
his  great  hand. 

"That's  right  hard,"  said  he  simply.  "We  can't  be 
married  now?  But— tell  me,  can't  I  help  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,  don't — don't  talk  of  that !"  she  said.  She 
was  weeping  now.  "Don't  try  to  help  me,"  she  sobbed 
bitterly.  "You  can't  help  me — nobody  can  help  me — 

126 


HORACE  BROOKS 


there's  no  help  in  the  world — not  even  God  can  help 
me!  You've  been  cruel — all  the  world  has  been  noth 
ing  but  cruel  to  me  all  my  life.  I've  nothing  to  hope — 
there's  nothing  that  can  help  me,  nothing.  I'm  one  of 
the  lost,  that's  all.  Until  today,  I'd  hoped.  I  never  will 
hope  again." 

Now  she  felt  the  great  hand  closing  once  more  on  top 
of  hers  above  the  broken  pickets. 

"Listen,  Aurora,"  said  he,  "if  it  doesn't  seem  that 
you  and  I  can  be  married,  there's  nothing  in  the  world 
which  makes  it  wrong  for  me  to  help  you  all  I  can — 
you  mustn't  think  I  didn't  love  you.  You  don't  think 
that,  do  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  think!"  said  she,  rubbing  at 
the  ceaseless  tears,  so  new  to  her.  "All  these  matters 
have  been  out  of  my  life — forever,  as  I  thought.  But 
sometimes — I've  been  so  lonesome,  you  know,  and  so 
helpless — I'm  tempted.  It's  hard  for  a  woman  to  live 
all  alone — it's  almost  a  thing  impossible — she's  so  lone 
some — sometimes  I  almost  think  I  could  depend  on  you, 
even  now." 

"That's  fine!"  said  he,  choking  up;  "that's  fine.  I 
expect  that's  about  all  I  had  coming  to  me  after  all. 
So  I  oughtn't  to  be  sorry — I  ought  to  be  very  happy. 
That's  about  the  finest  thing  I  ever  heard  in  all  my 
life." 

"And  about  the  sweetest  words  I  ever  heard  in  all 

127 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


my  life  were  what  you  said  just  now — after  knowing 
all  you  do  about  me." 

"But  you  won't  tell  me  that  you'll  marry  me  now?" 
He  bent  and  picked  up  her  hand  in  both  his  great  ones. 
"I  know  you  will  not."  He  kissed  her  hand  reverently. 

"Good  night,"  said  he  gently.  And  presently  she  was 
sensible  that  his  shambling  figure  was  passing  away 
down  the  street  under  the  checkered  shadows  of  the 
maples. 

Aurora  Lane  stood  yet  for  just  a  moment,  how  long 
she  did  not  know.  There  came  to  her  ear  the  sound 
of  running  footsteps.  Her  boy  came  down  the  street, 
passing  Horace  Brooks  with  a  wave  of  his  hand.  He 
reached  her  side  now  as  she  still  stood  at  the  gate. 
He  was  panting,  perspiring  a  trifle. 

"Fine!"  said  he.  "Let's  go  in.  Maybe  I  can  sleep — 
I'd  like  to  sleep." 

"What  kept  you  so  late?"  asked  Aurora  Lane.  She 
hurried  in  ahead  of  him. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  OTHER  WOMAN  CONCERNED 
• 

THE  sultry  night  at  last  was  broken  by  a  breath 
less  dawn,  the  sun  rising  a  red  ball  over  the  farm 
lands  beyond  the  massed  maple  trees  of  the  town. 
Not  much  refreshed  by  the  attempt  at  sleep  in  the  stuffy 
little  rooms,  Don  and  his  mother  met  once  more  in  the 
little  kitchen  dining-room  where  she  had  prepared  the 
simple  breakfast. 

He  did  not  know,  as  he  picked  at  the  crisp  bacon 
strips,  that  bacon,  or  even  eggs,  made  an  unusual  break 
fast  in  his  mother's  household.  He  trifled  with  his 
cereal  and  his  coffee,  happily  too  considerate  to  men 
tion  the  lack  of  butter  and  cream,  but  grumblingly  sensi 
ble  all  the  time  that  the  bread  was  no  longer  fresh. 
He  was  living  in  a  new  world,  the  world  of  the  very 
poor.  His  time  had  not  yet  been  sufficient  therein  to 
give  him  much  understanding. 

He  looked  about  him  at  the  scantily  furnished  rooms, 
and  in  spite  of  himself  there  rose  before  his  mind  pic 
tures  he  had  known  these  last  few  years — wide  green 
parks,  with  oaks  and  elms,  stately  buildings  draped  with 
ivy,  flowers  about,  and  everywhere  the  air  of  quiet  ease. 

129 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


He  recalled  the  fellowship  of  fresh-cheeked  roistering 
youths  like  himself,  full  of  the  zest  of  life,  youth  well- 
clad,  with  the  stamp  of  having  known  the  good  things 
of  life;  young  women  well-clad,  well-appointed,  also. 
Books,  art,  the  touch  of  the  wide  world  of  thought, 
the  quiet,  the  comfort,  the  beauty,  the  physical  well- 
being  of  everything  about  him — these  had  been  a  daily 
experience  for  him  for  years.  He  unthinkingly  had  sup 
posed  that  all  life,  all  the  world,  must  continue  much 
like  this.  He  had  supposed,  had  he  given  it  any  thought 
at  all,  that  the  last  meager  bill  in  his  pockets  when  he 
started  home  would  in  some  magic  way  always  remain 
unneeded,  always  unspent.  He  had  opportunity  wait 
ing  for  him  in  his  profession,  and  he  knew  he  would  get 
on.  Never  before  in  all  his  life  had  he  known  the 
widow's  cruse. 

So  this  was  life,  then — this  little  room,  this  tawdry, 
sullen  town,  this  hot  and  lifeless  air,  this  hopelessly 
banal  and  uninteresting  place  that  had  been  his  mother's 
home  all  these  years — this  was  his  beginning  of  actual 
life!  The  first  lesson  he  had  had  yesterday;  the  next, 
yet  more  bitter,  he  must  have  today.  The  uninviting 
little  kitchen  seemed  to  him  the  center  of  a  drab  and 
dismal  world,  in  which  could  never  be  aught  of  happi 
ness  for  him  or  his. 

"It's  not  much,  Don,"  said  his  mother,  smiling  bravely 
as  her  eyes  noted  his  abstraction.  "I  live  so  simply — 

130 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 


I'm  afraid  a  big  man  like  you  won't  get  enough  to  eat 
with  me." 

She  did  not  mention  her  special  preparations  for  his 
arrival.  He  did  not  know  that  the  half-dozen  new 
serviettes  had  been  bought  for  his  coming.  He  did  not 
know  that  a  new  chair  also  had  been  purchased,  and 
that  he  himself  was  sitting  in  it  at  that  very  time.  In 
short,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  many  sacrifices  needful 
even  for  these  inexpensive  things  about  him.  He  did 
not  know  that  marvel  of  the  widow's  cruse,  filled  against 
dire  need  by  the  hand  of  merciful  Providence. 

"It's  all  right,  Mother,"  said  he,  toying  with  his  fork; 
"fine,  fine." 

"Coffee  strong  enough,  Don?"  She  looked  at  him 
anxiously.  Usually  she  made  it  weak  for  herself. 

"Oh,  they  never  let  us  have  it  at  all  when  we're 
training,  mother,"  said  he,  "and  not  strong  at  any 
time.  I  know  the  simple  life."  He  smiled  as  best  he 
might. 

"I  have  lived  it  here,  too,  Don,"  said  she  slowly,  "be 
cause  I  couldn't  well  help  it.  I  don't  suppose  anybody 
likes  it  when  it's  too  simple.  I  like  things  nice,  so 
much.  I've  always  longed  to  travel.  You  know,  Don, 
I  hear  of  people  going  over  to  Europe,  and  I'm  guilty 
of  the  sin  of  envy.  I  live  right  here  in  this  little  place 
all  the  time — I've  done  so  all  my  life.  I've  scarcely  been 
out  of  this  town  in  twenty  years.  If  I  could  see  pic- 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


tures — if  I  could  go  to  see  the  great  actors — if  I  could 
see  a  real  theater — just  once,  Don — you  don't  know  how 
happy  I'd  be.  And  I'm  sure  there  must  be  more 
beautiful  countries  than  this.  Still" — and  here  she 
sighed — "Miss  Julia  and  I  have  lived  quite  a  life  to 
gether — in  the  books,  the  magazines — pictures  too,  some 
times." 

He  looked  at  her  dumbly  now,  trying  to  understand  the 
steady  heroism  of  a  life  such  as  hers.  The  real  char 
acter  of  his  own  mother  never  yet  fully  had  impressed 
itself  upon  him.  Don  Lane  was  a  college  graduate,  but 
now  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  beginning  to 
think. 

"One  thing,"  she  added,  "I'd  never  do.  I'd  never  pre 
tend  to  be  what  I  was  not — I  didn't  ever  pretend  to 
have  what  I  didn't  have.  You  see  me,  Don,  and  my  life, 
pretty  much  as  we  are." 

"And  all  this  has  been  for  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  simply.  "But  although  we  grew  up  apart,  I 
don't  think  I  could  endure  it  if  I  thought  we  really 
were  to  part — if  you  would  leave  me  now. 

"I  was  half  hoping,"  she  went  on  musingly,  "that  you 
could  find  it  in  your  heart  to  stay  here  in  this  town." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Impossible!  That's  one  thing 
you  really  mustn't  ask  of  me." 

"Yes,  I  feared  you  would  think  of  it  in  that  way! 
But,  as  for  me,  this  is  my  place — I've  made  my  bed  here, 

132 


THE  OTHER  WOMAN 


and  I  must  lie  in  it.  I  know  the  people  of  this  town — 
I  know  what  they'll  all  do  to  me  now.  You  see,  you 
don't  know  these  things  yet." 

"No,"  said  he,  "but  you  and  Miss  Julia  both  will 
be  paid  back — the  money  part  of  it — some  time.  As 
for  me,  I'm  not  going  to  have  any  home." 

She  sat  silent  for  quite  a  time,  the  meager  breakfast 
now  being  ended  for  both. 

"Oh,  can't  you  forget  her,  Don?  Can't  you  give  her 
up?"  she  said  finally. 

"I  can't  forget  her,  Mother,  but  I'll  have  to  give  her 
up.  It  all  happened  there  on  the  car — just  at  once — 
in  public." 

"I'm  glad  you  never  kissed  her,  Don,"  said  she. 
"You're  both  so  young." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  as  she  went  on.  "Love  has 
to  be  loved  in  any  case.  That  means — I  suppose  it  means 
— that  for  the  very  young,  if  it  be  not  one,  it  may  later 
be  another." 

He  only  smiled  bitterly  at  this.  "It  all  comes  to  the 
same  thing  in  any  case,"  said  he.  "I'll  have  to  tell  her 
what  I  know,  and  we'll  have  to  part.  It  would  be  the 
same  with  any  other  woman,  if  there  could  be  any 
other.  There  can't  be." 

"I've  been  frank  with  you,  Don,  and  I  don't  know 
whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry  for  that.  I'd  love  nothing 
so  much  in  the  world  as  to  see  you  happily  married — 

133 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


but  nothing  in  the  world  could  so  much  hurt  me  as 
to  see  you  marry  Anne  Oglesby." 

"No  fear  of  it!" 

"You'll  tell  her?" 

"Yes.     Today." 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  MURDER 

ONCE  more  the  strident  call  of  the  telephone  broke 
in,  and  Aurora  Lane  stepped  aside. 

"It's  Miss  Julia,"  said  she  excitedly,  turning 
upon  her  son  eyes  suddenly  grown  large.  "Why,  it's 
something  awful!  Don — a  terrible  thing  has  happened 
—last  night." 

"What's  wrong — what's  happened?"  he  demanded. 

"Mr.  Tarbush — the  city  marshal — why,  you  know — 
he  was  killed — murdered — last  night — found  this  morn 
ing!  It  was  about  one  o'clock,  as  near  as  they  can 
tell,  Miss  Julia  says.  It's  all  over  town." 

An  exclamation  left  the  young  man's  lips.  "What's 
that?  Murdered?" 

"Yes,  yes — wait "  She  spoke  on  into  the  tele 
phone.  "Yes,  Julia,  Don  and  I  were  just  at  breakfast — 
no,  we've  not  been  on  the  street  yet — one  o'clock,  you 
said  ?  That  was  when  we  were  just  coming  home  from 
the  library!" 

"Mother,"  said  Don,  "that's  right !  It  must  have  been 
just  about  one  o'clock,  wasn't  it?" 

135 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


She  looked  at  him  steadily  for  a  time,  as  she  dropped 
the  receiver,  her  own  face  a  trifle  pale.  "Yes — we  hadn't 
gone  to  sleep  at  the  time  it  happened.  He  was  killed 
right  in  front  of  his  own  house,  Miss  Julia  says." 

"And  where  is  that? — you  see,  I  don't  know  much 
about  the  town." 

"Beyond  the  square,  about  three  blocks  from  the 
farther  corner — the  little  house  with  the  low  fence  in 
front,  and  the  deep  front  yard." 

"We  didn't  pass  that  when  we  came  up  from  the 
station  ?" 

"No,  we  came  another  street.     But,  Don " 

"Yes?" 

"When  you  were  running  last  night,  you  must  have 
passed  right  close  to  there!  You  didn't  see  anything 
strange?" 

"Of  course  not!  I'd  have  looked  into  it.  I  don't 
recall  that  particular  house. 

"Well,"  he  added,  after  a  moment's  silence,  "in  spite 
of  all  that  happened  yesterday  between  him  and  us,  I'm 
not  going  to  call  him  anything  but  a  good  man — now." 

She  looked  at  him  strangely — studied  his  face  steadily. 

"I'll  be  going  out  now,  I  think — I'm  going  to  run 
over  to  see  Julia  for  a  time.  Please  don't  go  out  on  the 
street,  Don.  Stay  right  here.  We  got  into  trouble 
enough  yesterday." 

"You  needn't  fear,"  said  he.     "There's  nothing  and 

136 


THE  MURDER 


nobody  in  this  town  I  want  to  see.  I'll  be  glad  when 
I  shake  the  dust  of  it  off  my  feet — when  I  once  get 
squared  away  in  my  own  business  you  shall  leave  this 
place  and  live  with  me." 

And  then,  as  there  came  to  him  again  and  again  the 
anticipated  pain  of  parting  with  the  one  he  himself  loved, 
he  came  up  to  his  mother  and  put  his  arms  once  more 
upon  her  shoulders.  Again  her  hands  found  his  hair. 
She  cast  a  quick  glance  about  her,  as  though  in  his 
defense. 

"Don,"  said  she,  "I  think  I'll  never  get  over  thinking 
of  you  as  just  a  boy,  a  little  boy." 

He  tried  to  smile.  "Pity  you  didn't  drown  me  in  the 
pool  yonder,"  said  he. 

It  was  the  most  cruel  thing  he  could  have  found  to 
say,  although  he  spoke  only  in  his  own  bitterness,  care 
less,  as  a  man  so  often  is,  of  a  woman's  hurts.  But  she 
left  him  without  comment;  and  soon  he  had  resumed 
his  own  restless  walking  up  and  down  in  the  narrow 
quarters  which  seemed  to  him  such  a  prison. 

Meantime  all  Spring  Valley  was  afoot  and  agog  over 
this  news.  It  was  the  most  sensational  thing  that  had 
happened,  as  Aaron  Craybill  said,  since  Ben  Wilson's 
wife  went  crazy  out  on  the  farm,  come  four  years  ago, 
and  killed  her  four  babies,  and  hid  in  the  haystack  until 
they  found  her  three  days  later,  and  sent  her  to  the 
asylum.  And  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

137 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


All  the  good  folk  met  in  groups  at  home  or  in  the 
streets,  so  that  within  an  hour  after  breakfast  there 
was  not  a  soul  in  all  Spring  Valley  did  not  know  that 
the  town  marshal  had  just  been  killed  by  some  unknown 
person  for  some  unknown  reason.  The  news  seemed 
dulling,  stupefying.  The  clerks  who  opened  the  drug 
stores  around  the  public  square,  the  only  shops  open 
of  the  Sunday,  were  slow  in  their  sweeping  out  that 
morning.  Pedestrians  on  the  streets  walked  slowly.  The 
entire  life  of  the  town  seemed  slow.  The  sluggish,  ar 
resting  solemnity  of  death  sat  upon  all  the  little 
community. 

Spring  Valley  had  no  daily  newspaper,  and  even  the 
weekly  Clarion,  a  production  of  some  six  pages,  had  its 
trials  in  making  a  living  there,  so  close  was  the  village 
to  larger  towns  which  reached  out  and  covered  most 
of  its  commercial  needs  in  this  time  of  telegraph  and 
trolley.  The  editor  of  the  Clarion  was,  naturally,  the 
correspondent  of  the  largest  daily  of  the  near-by  me 
tropolis.  Twice  in  all  his  life  he  had  had  opportunity 
for  a  first  page  story  in  the  great  city  daily.  His  first 
metropolitan  opportunity  was  when  the  aforementioned 
farmer's  wife  had  killed  her  children,  some  four  years 
ago.  And  now  here  was  something  quite  as  big.  Editor 
Anderson  sat  at  his  own  breakfast  table  for  more  than 
half  an  hour  pondering  on  the  opening  sentence  which  he 
was  going  to  write  in  his  dispatch  to  the  morning  daily. 

138 


THE  MURDER 


By  eleven-thirty  he  had  written  his  story,  and  had 
taken  it  down  to  the  station  agent  for  transmission  by 
wire;  and  that  worthy  told  him  that  as  soon  as  Number 
Five  got  by  he  would  begin  to  send  the  message.  "I 
can't  stop  for  anything  so  long  as  that  now,"  said  he. 

It  was  somewhat  longer  as  written  than  as  printed, 
but  Mr.  Anderson  described  the  murder  of  the  city 
marshal  in  the  following  terms : 


The  progressive  little  city  of  Spring  Valley,  Jackson 
County,  this  state,  was  electrified  this  morning  by  the  start 
ling  news  of  the  murder  of  the  well-known  city  marshal, 
Mr.  Joel  Tarbush,  a  man  of  sterling  qualities,  who  has  held 
the  office  for  many  years,  and  who  had  endeared  himself  in 
the  hearts  of  the  community  not  only  for  his  discharge 
of  his  official  duties,  but  for  his  kindliness  of  heart. 
The  funeral  will  occur  tomorrow  afternoon  at  half-past 
three.  Reverend  William  D.  Rawlins  will  give  the  funeral 
address. 

The  city  of  Spring  Valley  is  all  excitement  at  this  writ 
ing.  No  trace  of  the  cowardly  assassin  has  yet  been  found, 
and  the  entire  affair  remains  shrouded  in  the  deepest  mys 
tery,  which  not  even  the  keenest  intellects  have  been  able  to 
penetrate.  There  is  no  one  who  can  ascribe  a  motive  suffi 
cient  to  inspire  the  murder  of  so  respected  and  harmless  a 
citizen. 

Some  have  ascribed  the  fiendish  act  to  some  hobo  or  tramp 
who  may  have  taken  revenge  on  the  marshal  for  some  real 
or  fancied  injury  in  the  past.  But  no  one  can  recall  any 
instance  in  which  the  deceased  has  ever  incurred  the  enmity 
of  any  such  characters,  so  that  all  remain  at  a  loss  how  to 
account  for  this  act.  There  seems  to  have  been  no  eye 
witness,  and  therefore  all  is  but  mere  conjecture. 

Your  reporter  was  among  the  first  at  the  premises  early 
this  morning,  and  thus  gained  all  the  information  that  can 
be  secured  at  this  writing.  He  has  interviewed  Miss  Audrey 

139 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Tarbush,  daughter  of  the  deceased,  who  had  for  many  years 
kept  house  for  him  in  their  residence  on  Mulberry  Street, 
about  five  Mocks  from  the  courthouse,  where  the  deceased 
had  a  small  garden  and  raised  vegetables  and  flowers  which 
he  sold  in  the  best  families  of  our  flourishing  city. 

Miss  Audrey  Tarbush,  when  interviewed  by  our  reporter, 
said  that  she  had  last  night,  according  to  her  usual  custom, 
retired  at  the  hour  of  half-past  nine.  She  did  not  attend 
the  exercises  at  the  city  library,  where  most  of  the  elite  of 
the  town  were  present  last  night,  because  of  a  headache 
from  which  she  suffered.  She  left  the  front  door  unlocked, 
as  was  her  custom,  for  the  entry  of  her  father  when  he  had 
finished  the  duties  of  his  day's  work.  Usually,  Marshal 
Tarbush  came  home  at  about  ten  o'clock,  and  himself  then 
retired.  On  this  night,  by  reason  of  certain  extraordinary 
occurrences  during  the  preceding  day,  he  thought  it  wise  to 
remain  out  later  than  usual.  This  was  in  accordance  with 
his  well-known  courage  and  his  conscientious  endeavor  to 
protect  the  residents  of  the  city  against  any  possible 
danger. 

It  was  about  a  quarter  after  one  o'clock,  as  near  as  Miss 
Audrey  Tarbush  can  recall,  that  she  was  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  footfalls  on  the  front  porch.  She  called  out, 
"Who's  there  ?"  but  got  no  answer.  As  she  went  to  the  door 
her  father  succeeded  in  opening  it  and  staggered  in.  He 
sank  down  into  a  chair  near  the  center  table.  She  saw  then 
that  he  was  very  pale,  and  had  a  wound  upon  his  head 
from  which  blood  was  still  flowing.  Much  alarmed,  she 
inquired  of  him  what  had  occurred.  The  deceased  was 
unable  to  answer.  He  seemed  to  be  approaching  a  sort  of 
coma. 

"Who  was  it?  Who  did  it?"  Miss  Audrey  Tarbush  de 
manded  of  him.  It  was  a  dramatic  situation. 

The  deceased  was  unable  to  make  an  intelligent  reply. 
"Someone  hit  me,"  he  muttered.  That  was  all  he  could 
manage  to  say,  and  that  was  all  she  could  catch  of  his  last 
words.  Before  long  his  head  sank  forward  and  he  breathed 
his  last  almost  in  her  arms.  Unassisted  she  was  able  to 
carry  the  body  of  her  father  to  the  near-by  sofa. 

At  that  late  hour  the  telephone  operator  had  gone  home, 
so  she  was  unable  to  call  any  of  the  neighbors  by  means 

140 


THE  MURDER 


of  the  telephone.  She  does  not  recall  how  long  she  was 
alone  with  the  dead  body  of  her  esteemed  parent,  but  after 
a  time  her  cries  from  the  front  porch  were  heard.  The 
neighbors  came  to  her  assistance,  but  nothing  could  be  done. 

Examination  of  the  remains  of  the  deceased  revealed  a 
long  and  ragged  wound  over  the  upper  and  left-hand  part 
of  the  head,  breaking  the  cuticle  for  a  distance  of  some 
four  or  five  inches.  The  marshal's  hat  had  been  on  when 
he  was  struck.  The  skull  was  broken  for  a  distance  of 
more  than  two  inches,  according  to  the  examination  of  Dr. 
Amos  N.  Beals,  who  examined  the  body,  the  left  parietal 
bone  being  crushed  in  as  by  some  heavy  instrument. 

Your  reporter  deduces  the  following  theory  of  the  crime. 
At  a  late  hour,  after  City  Marshal  Tarbush  had  finished 
his  duties  in  the  public  square,  he  went  towards  his  home, 
the  public  meeting  at  the  library  having  by  this  time  been 
dismissed.  At  a  distance  of  perhaps  fifty  feet  west  of  the 
front  gate  of  his  own  home  the  deceased  was  approached 
by  some  miscreant,  who  with  some  heavy  blunt  instrument 
struck  him  down  from  behind,  and  who  then  made  his  escape, 
leaving  no  sign  behind  him.  No  club  or  weapon  of  any 
kind  was  found. 

After  receiving  his  death  blow  this  estimable  citizen  seems 
to  have  walked,  steadying  himself  against  the  top  rail  of 
the  fence,  until  he  reached  the  gate.  The  bloody  finger 
prints  upon  the  top  of  the  fence  were  no  doubt  made  by  his 
own  fingers,  which  he  must  have  raised  up  to  his  head.  He 
was  able  to  enter  his  own  gate,  come  up  his  own  walk,  and 
ascend  his  own  front  steps.  Up  to  that  time  no  one  can  tell 
the  story.  What  ensued  after  that  has  been  told  by  your 
reporter  in  the  interview  with  Miss  Audrey  Tarbush,  his 
loving  daughter. 

So  ended  a  long  and  honorable  life.  The  pallbearers  will 
be  chosen  from  leading  citizens  of  the  town,  but  their  names 
have  not  yet  been  determined.  He  will  be  buried  by  the 
Knights  Templar,  to  which  order  he  belonged,  probably  on 
Sunday  afternoon,  because,  although  such  haste  may  appear 
unseemly,  this  early  funeral  will  allow  a  representative  at 
tendance  of  all  the  members  of  the  order,  including  prac 
tically  all  our  leading  citizens,  with  their  full  music,  so  that 
the  concluding  exercises  may  thus  show  a  greater  tribute  of 

141 


THE  BROKEN  GATE1 


respect,  the  attendance  at  any  later  day  being  sure  to  be 
far  less  general. 

Your  reporter  has  interviewed  prominent  citizens  as  to 
the  cause  of  this  crime  which  has  so  shocked  our  community. 
When  approached  by  your  reporter,  Judge  William  Hender 
son,  well-known  candidate  for  the  United  States  senatorship, 
former  member  of  the  Republic  State  Central  Committee 
and  prominent  citizen  in  this  state,  said,  "I  cannot  hazard 
even  a  guess  at  the  perpetrator  of  this  ghastly  crime  which 
has  so  shocked  our  community." 

The  story  written  by  Mr.  Anderson  ended  at  this 
point.  As  printed  it  ended  considerably  in  advance  of 
this  point;  but  at  least,  as  he  later  told  his  wife,  he  had 
done  his  best  to  give  his  paper  a  good  story.  By  the 
time  his  message  was  waiting  in  the  hands  of  the  station 
agent,  telephone  wires  were  busy  between  Spring  Valley 
and  other  larger  towns.  The  early  afternoon  papers  in 
Columbus  were  on  the  streets  by  eleven-thirty  with  big 
headlines,  and  a  few  lines  of  type  about  the  murder  of 
"County  Sheriff  Abel  Tarbush  of  Spring  Valley,  Jack 
son  County,  for  which  murder  four  tramps  had  been 
suspected  and  placed  in  jail."  The  deceased  was  de 
scribed  as  a  prominent  Mason.  By  that  time  the  star 
reporters  of  the  morning  dailies  were  on  the  through 
train,  Number  Five,  bound  east  from  Columbus  to  Spring 
Valley,  as  many  learned  by  telephone ;  so  that  the  arrival 
of  Number  Five  this  day  would  be  a  matter  of  special 
importance. 

Of  exact  details  in  all  these  matters,  Don  Lane  knew 
but  little.  It  was  for  reasons  of  his  own,  easily  obvious, 

142 


THE  MURDER 


that  he  went  down  to  the  little  station  to  meet  the 
through  train  from  the  West.  Anne  Oglesby  was 
coming ! 

His  mother  did  not  accompany  him,  of  course,  and  he 
therefore  was  quite  alone.  Of  all  those  whom  he  en 
countered  hurrying  in  the  same  direction,  all  those  who 
packed  the  little  platform  and  who  stood  here  and  there 
in  groups  speaking  solemnly  one  with  the  other,  he 
could  count  not  a  friend,  not  an  acquaintance.  Dully  he 
felt  that  here  and  there  an  eye  was  turned  upon  him, 
that  here  and  there  a  word  was  spoken  about  him.  He 
dismissed  it  as  part  of  the  aftermath  of  his  own  troubles 
of  the  previous  day.  He  walked  nervously  up  and 
down,  impatiently  looking  westward  down  the  line  of 
rails,  his  own  contemptuous  hatred  for  all  these  lost  in 
the  greater  emotion  that  filled  his  heart.  Anne  was 
coming — she  was  almost  here!  And  he  must  say 
good-by. 

Meantime,  in  the  courthouse,  there  was  going  forward 
due  action  on  the  part  of  the  officers  of  the  law  in 
trusted  with  the  solution  of  such  mysteries  as  this  mur 
der.  The  sheriff,  a  large  and  solid  man,  Dan  Cowles 
by  name,  was  one  of  the  first  to  inspect  the  premises 
where  the  crime  had  been  committed.  Shortly  after 
that  he  went  over  to  the  office  of  Blackman,  Justice  of  the 
Peace  and  coroner,  who  by  ten  o'clock  that  morning 
had  summoned  his  jury  of  six  men — Nels  Jorgens,  the 

143 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


blacksmith ;  Mr.  Rawlins,  the  minister  of  the  Church 
of  Christ;  Ben  McQuaid,  the  traveling  man;  Newman, 
the  clothing  merchant;  J.  B.  Saunders,  the  Knight 
Templar ;  Jerome  Westbrook,  clerk  in  the  First  National 
Bank. 

It  chanced  that  the  county  prosecutor,  a  young  man 
by  the  name  of  Slattery,  was  out  of  town  at  this  time, 
so  that  the  executive  side  of  the  law  for  a  moment  hesi 
tated.  The  sheriff  therefore  called  up  Judge  Henderson 
and  asked  his  presence  at  the  courthouse  for  a  con 
sultation.  The  two  were  closeted  for  some  time  in  the 
sheriff's  office.  At  this  time  the  deliberations  of  the 
coroner's  jury  would  have  been  well  advanced ;  there 
fore,  Sheriff  Cowles  took  up  the  telephone  and  called 
up  Coroner  Blackman  at  the  Tarbush  residence,  just  as 
the  latter  was  upon  the  point  of  calling  for  a  verdict 
of  the  jury  in  the  accustomed  words,  "Murder  at  the 
hands  of  party  or  parties  unknown." 

"Wait,  Mr.  Coroner !"  said  Sheriff  Cowles.  "There's 
going  to  be  some  more  witnesses.  Keep  your  jury  to 
gether." 

A  few  moments  later  the  long  shrieking  whistle  of 
Number  Five  was  heard  as  she  came  up  out  of  the  Paw 
Paw  Creek  bottoms,  climbing  the  hill  at  the  brick  yards, 
and  swung  around  the  curve  through  South  Spring  Val 
ley  into  the  stretch  of  straight  track  leading  down  to  the 
station.  As  the  grinding  brakes  brought  the  heavy  train 

144 


THE  MURDER 


finally  to  a  standstill,  three  or  four  young  men  swung 
down  from  the  day  coaches — reporters  from  outside 
towns. 

Don  Lane  elbowed  his  way  to  the  edge  of  the  plat 
form.  His  eye  was  searching  eagerly  along  the  train 
exits  for  someone  else — someone  else  whom  he  longed 
and  yet  dreaded  to  see. 


CHAPTER  XI 
IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

DON'S  moody  face  suddenly  lighted  up.  A  young 
woman  was  stepping  down  from  one  of  the  cars 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  train,  the  porter  assist 
ing  her  to  the  footstool.  Now  she  was  coming  steadily 
along  the  edge  of  the  platform,  carrying  in  one  hand 
a  trim  little  bag,  in  the  other  a  trim  little  umbrella.  Now 
she  was  looking  about  expectant.  It  was  she — 
Anne! 

His  heart  leaped  out  to  her,  his  love  rose  surgingly 
at  sight  of  her,  sweet  and  beautiful  as  she  seemed,  and 
all  so  fit  for  love  of  man. 

A  tall  young  girl  she  was,  who  walked  with  head 
well  up  and  the  suggestion  of  tennis  about  her — an 
indefinable  something  of  chic  also  about  her,  as  in 
dicative  of  physical  well-being  as  that  suggested  by  some 
of  the  young  faces  on  the  magazine  covers  of  the  day; 
which  would  explain  why  in  her  college  Anne  Oglesby 
always  was  known  as  "the  magazine  girl."  She  had 
straightforward  gray  eyes,  a  fine  mouth  of  much  sweet 
ness.  Above  her  forehead  rose  a  deep  and  narrow  ruff 
of  dense  brown  hair,  golden  brown.  Trim,  yet  well- 

146 


THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

appointed,  she  was  one  of  those  types  whom  unhesi 
tatingly  we  class  as  aristocrats.  A  young  woman  fit  for 
any  higher  class,  qualified  for  any  rank,  she  seemed — and 
a  creature  utterly  apart  from  the  crowd  that  now  jostled 
her  on  the  narrow  platform. 

Her  eyes,  too,  lighted  up  at  sight  of  the  young  man 
who  now  hurried  forward  to  meet  her,  but  no  unseemly 
agitation  marked  her  own  personal  conduct  in  public. 
Demure,  clean,  cool  and  sweet,  all  in  hand,  she  did  not 
hasten  nor  hold  back. 

Dieudonne  Lane  had  told  his  mother  that  never  yet 
had  he  kissed  Anne  Oglesby.  Now,  at  sight  of  her  and 
at  the  thought  that  almost  at  once  they  must  part  for 
ever,  a  great  rebellion  rose  in  his  heart.  He  stepped  for 
ward  swiftly,  impulsively,  irresistibly. 

He  caught  her  quickly  in  his  arms  before  all  the 
crowd  and  kissed  her — once.  It  was  his  great  salutation 
to  love — a  salutation  of  great  longing — a  salutation  which 
meant  farewell. 

She  gasped,  flushed  rosy  red,  but  walked  straight 
along  with  him  as  he  caught  the  bag  from  her  hands. 
She  looked  up  at  him,  astonished,  yet  not  wholly  resent 
ful.  It  was  no  place  for  speech  on  the  part  of  either. 
The  dust  of  the  street  seemed  naught  to  him  or  her, 
and  as  for  this  curious  crowd,  they  did  not  chill  nor 
offend — Anne  Oglesby  suddenly  wished  to  take  all  the 
world  into  her  arms  and  greet  it.  Anne  Oglesby  at  that 

147 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


moment  loved — the  touch  of  this  man's  lips  on  hers  had 
wrought  the  irrevocable,  immortal,  awful  change. 

They  had  not  yet  spoken  a  word,  these  two,  at  the 
time  he  left  her  to  call  some  vehicle  for  her  use.  He 
turned  and  looked  directly  into  the  face  of  Dan  Cowles, 
sheriff,  a  man  whom  he  had  never  seen  before,  but  who 
now  reached  out  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 
Cowles  had  that  instant  reached  the  station  plat 
form. 

Don  would  have  passed,  but  the  sheriff  spoke: 

"I  want  you.     Come  with  me." 

The  tempestuous  blood  of  the  young  man  flamed  at 
this,  but  now,  as  he  looked  into  the  solemn  face  before 
him,  he  found  something  to  give  him  pause. 

"What's  up?"  he  demanded.     "Who  are  you?" 

"I'm  the  sheriff  of  this  county,"  said  Cowles.  "Come 
with  me." 

"What  do  you  want?"  again  demanded  Don.  "I'm 
with  this  young  lady." 

"That's  no  difference,"  said  Cowles. 

"It  must  be  about  the  Tarbush  matter,"  said  Dew- 
donny  Lane.  "I'll  testify,  but  I  know  nothing  of  that. 
I'll  come  on  over  directly.  This  young  lady  is  going 
to  Judge  Henderson's." 

The  sheriff  looked  at  the  young  girl  curiously.  The 
crowd  now  had  surged  about  them.  Like  so  many  cattle 
at  the  smell  of  blood,  a  strange  low  sound,  animal-like, 

148 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

a  sort  of  moan  of  curiosity,  seemed  to  rise.  Wide-eyed, 
the  girl  turned. 

"What  is  it,  Don?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  has  hap 
pened?  The  Tarbush  case — what  do  you  mean?" 

"I'm  going  to  take  him  to  the  coroner's  hearing,  miss," 
said  the  sheriff  in  a  low  tone  of  voice. 

"Why,  you  see,  Anne,"  began  Don,  "the  city  marshal 
of  this  town  was  killed  last  night.  I  suppose  the  cor 
oner  is  looking  into  it.  It's  a  terrible  thing — the  town's 
all  upset — haven't  you  heard  anything  of  it?" 

"Why,  no.  I  left  home  before  any  of  our  papers  came 
out.  How  did  it  happen?" 

Don  felt  the  sheriff  again  touch  his  arm.  "Step  into 
my  car,"  said  he,  "both  of  you — you  get  on  the  front 
seat  with  me." 

A  moment  later  they  were  whirling  off  up  the  dusty 
street  toward  the  central  part  of  the  town.  The  crowd, 
breaking  into  little  groups,  came  hurrying  on  along 
the  sidewalks,  some  even  falling  into  a  run  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  street. 

"Well,  he  got  him!"  said  one  citizen  to  another. 
"Quick  work  for  the  sher'ff,  wasn't  it?  A  little  more 
and  that  fellow  would  'a'  got  off  on  that  train,  like 
enough.  That's  what  he  was  down  here  for.  I  seen 
him  lookin'  for  the  train." 

"Yes,  and  that  young  fellow  had  a  dangerous  look  on 
him,  too,"  said  another.  "He's  bad,  that's  what  he  is! 

149 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Look  how  he   showed  it  yesterday — right  after  court, 
too." 

Each  had  this  or  that  comment  to  make,  but  all  fol 
lowed  on  now  toward  the  scenes  where  the  further  action 
in  the  drama  of  the  day  must  now  ensue. 

Cowles  pulled  up  on  the  side  of  the  square  on  which 
Judge  Henderson  had  his  office.  "You  may  get  out  here, 
Miss/'  said  he.  "I  think  you'll  find  the  Judge  in  right 
now." 

"But  why — what's  the  reason "  she  began,  much 

perturbed,  and  looking  at  Don.     "What's  wrong,  Don? 
Aren't  you  coming?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Sheriff,"  said  Don,  "let  me  go  up  with  her. 
I'll  be  right  on  over." 

The  big  man  looked  at  the  two,  a  sort  of  pity  in 
his  face.  "I'm  sorry,"  said  he,  "but  you'll  have  to  come 
with  me  right  away.  Tell  me,  are  you  Miss  Oglesby,  his 
kin  from  over  Columbus  way?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  she.  "I've  been  here  before.  But 
tell  me,  what  does  this  mean — this  murder?  It's  an 
awful  thing,  isn't  it?  It  seems  to  me  I  remember  the 
marshal's  name — maybe  I've  seen  him.  Who  did  it — 
whom  do  they  suspect?" 

"That's  what  we  don't  know  for  sure,"  said  the  sher 
iff,  "and  it's  what  we've  got  to  find  out." 

"Why,  who  would  ever  have  thought  it  of  this  little 
town !" 

150 


N  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

"Things  happen  in  this  little  town,  I  reckon,  about 
the  same  as  they  do  anywhere,"  said  the  sheriff. 

"Don "  She  turned  to  him  once  more  as  she  stood 

on  the  pavement,  he  still  remaining  on  the  front  seat 
of  the  car  where  the  sheriff's  hand  restrained  him. 
"Why,  Don " 

But  the  sheriff's  solemn  face  was  turned  towards  her. 
He  shook  his  head.  An  instant  and  the  car  had  whirled 
away  from  the  curb. 

They  had  parted,  almost  before  they  had  met ! 

To  Dieudonne  Lane,  ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  caus^ 
of  all  this,  it  seemed  that  the  final  parting  of  all  had 
come,  and,  bitterly  he  reflected,  they  had  had  no  chance 
— no  chance  whatever — for  what  was  due  them  from 
their  love,  their  life  itself. 

Anne  Oglesby,  the  kiss  of  her  lover's  lips  still  sweet 
and  trembling  upon  her  mouth,  her  own  mind  confused, 
her  own  heart  disturbed,  turned  towards  the  dusty  stair, 
all  her  senses  in  a  whirl.  And  within  five  minutes 
Don  Lane,  very  pale  and  much  distressed,  was  in  the 
front  part  of  the  little  home  of  Joel  Tarbush.  The 
officer  had  brought  him  before  Justice  Blackman,  the 
coroner,  and  the  coroner's  jury,  six  solemn-faced  men 
who  sat  now  in  the  front  parlor  which  had  no  other  oc 
cupants  save  the  red-eyed  daughter  of  the  dead  man, 
and  save  the  long  and  shrouded  figure  which  lay  upon 
the  couch  near  by. 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Don  Lane  could  not  misread  the  hostility  of  the  gaze 
turned  upon  him  by  most  of  these  whom  now  he 
saw. 

Something  suddenly  caught  at  his  heart — his  first  feel 
ing  of  fear,  of  uncertainty;  but  even  this  was  mingled 
with  a  rage  at  fate,  which  could  be  so  cruelly  unjust  to 
him.  And  always,  in  spite  of  himself,  he  felt  his  eyes 
turning  to  look,  awed,  terrified,  upon  the  long  thing  which 
lay  upon  the  couch.  And  always  the  eyes  of  these  six 
men  saw  what  he  did,  saw  what  he  saw. 

"This  is  Dewdonny  Lane,"  said  the  Sheriff  briefly,  and 
himself  sat  down  to  await  the  progress  of  events. 

The  formalities  were  few.  "You  may  be  sworn,"  said 
the  coroner  to  him — "it's  just  as  well."  Then  the  oath 
administered,  Blackman  began  the  regular  questions,  and 
Don  answered  steadily. 

"My  name  is  Dieudonne  Lane.  I  am  twenty-two  years 
of  age.  I  have  no  residence  as  yet.  I  am  a  graduate 
in  engineering.  I'm  going  to  Wyoming  some  time  this 
month  to  take  up  my  work  there." 

There  was  a  little  silence  in  the  room,  and  then  the 
coroner  began  again: 

"Where  were  you  just  now?"  he  asked.  "We  sent 
for  you  at  your  home." 

"I  was  at  the  station — I  went  to  meet  a  friend." 

"What  friend  was  it?" 

Don  Lane  flushed  red.  "What  difference  is  it?  Oh, 

152 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

if  I  must  answer,  it  was  Miss  Anne  Oglesby,  of  Colum 
bus.  I  went  down  to  the  train  to  meet  her." 

Sheriff  Cowles  nodded.  "That's  true/'  said  he.  "I 
took  her  up  to  Judge  Henderson's  office  myself." 

"What  relations  have  you  with  this  young  lady  ?"  asked 
Blackman. 

"That's  not  the  business  of  anyone,"  said  Don  Lane 
hotly. 

"Do  you  want  counsel  to  protect  you  now  ?" 

"No,  why  should  I?  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  tell 
all  I  know  about  the  case,  and  that's  all  I  can  do. 
There's  no  lawyer  I'd  send  for  anyhow." 

"Where  were  you  last  night  at  about  midnight  ?" 

"I  was  at  the  library  meeting  with  my  mother." 

"When  did  you  leave  there?" 

"It  must  have  been  midnight  or  later — oh,  yes,  I  re 
member  seeing  the  town  clock  as  we  passed  through 
the  square.  That  was  just  before  one  o'clock — perhaps 
ten  or  fifteen  minutes.  We  were  out  late — every  one 
was." 

"Who  was  with  you  when  you  were  going  home  ?" 

"My  mother,  and  for  a  time  Mr.  Rawlins  here — one 
of  you  gentlemen  of  the  jury.  He  will  know.  Just  as 
we  left  the  library  we  were  joined  by  Mr.  Horace 
Brooks." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"We  three  walked  on  together.  It  was  at  the  sec- 

153 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


ond  corner  of  the  square,  where  Mulberry  Street  turns 
off,  that  Mr.  Brooks  left  me." 

Nels  Jorgens,  one  of  the  jury,  now  spoke  up.  "That's 
true,"  said  he.  "I  saw  the  three  of  them  walking  along 
the  front  of  the  square,  and  saw  them  turn  in  at  Mul 
berry  Street.  Across  from  where  I  live  I  saw  two  peo 
ple  at  the  gate.  It  was  a  man — a  tall  man — and  her — 
Aurora  Lane." 

"You  yourself  were  not  at  the  gate  then  ?" 

"No,"  said  Don,  "I  had  left  just  at  the  corner  of  the 
square." 

"Why  did  you  leave  them?" 

"Well,  I  wanted  to  have  a  little  run  before  I  went 
to  bed.  I'm  used  to  taking  exercise  every  night — I 
always  did  at  college,  to  keep  up  my  training." 

"Where  did  you  go  when  you  were  running?" 

"I  may  be  mistaken  in  the  directions,  but  it  was 
across  the  square,  opposite  from  Mulberry  Street.  I 
turned  to  the  right.  I  must  have  run  perhaps  four 
or  five  blocks,  I  don't  know  just  how  far  it  was.  It  was 
quite  warm." 

"Did  you  come  into  this  street?" 

"I  don't  really  know." 

"You  didn't  see  anybody?" 

"Not  a  soul.    I  didn't  hear  a  sound." 

"What  time  was  that?" 

"I  heard  the  clock  strike  one  before  I  turned  back." 

154 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,"  said  the  coroner,  "it  was  just 
about  that  time  that  Joel  Tarbush  was  killed,  right  here." 

"That's  true,"  said  Don  Lane.  "It's  terrible  to  think 
of — but  why " 

"You  heard  Judge  Henderson's  testimony,  gentlemen," 
went  on  the  coroner.  "He  told  of  seeing  these  three 
people  pass  by  on  the  square  in  front  of  his  office  stair. 
Just  before  that  he  had  said  good  night  to  Tarbush 
himself.  He  saw  Tarbush  start  right  over  this  way 
for  his  home.  Now,  just  in  time  to  catch  him  before 
he  got  into  his  home — if  a  man  was  running  fast — a 
man  did  run  from  the  square  over  in  this  direction!" 

The  members  of  the  jury  remained  silent.  Their  faces 
were  extremely  grave. 

"And,  gentlemen,  you  have  heard  the  testimony  of 
other  witnesses  here  before  now,  stating  that  this  wit 
ness  was  heard  to  make  threats  to  Tarbush  yesterday 
afternoon,  right  after  he  was  dismissed  from  my  own 
court  upstairs.  Mr.  Jorgens,  I  believe  you  were  there. 
What  did  this  young  man  say  after  he  had  for  the 
second  time  assaulted  Ephraim  Adamson — twice  in  one 
day,  and  entirely  regardless  of  the  rebuke  of  the  law?" 

"He  said,  Mr.  Coroner,"  replied  Nels  Jorgens  gravely, 
even  with  sadness  in  his  face,  "just  when  he  came  out 
of  the  crowd  where  he  had  left  Adamson  laying  on 
the  ground  already — he  said  to  Tarbush,  'You'll  come 
next' — or  Til  get  you  next' — something  of  that  kind." 

155 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Was  he  angry  at  that  time?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Coroner,  he  was,"  said  Nels  Jorgens,  against 
his  will. 

Ben  McQuaid  leaned  over  to  whisper  to  Jerome  West- 
brook.  "It  seems  like  this  young  fellow  comes  in  here 
with  his  college  education  and  undertakes  to  run  this 
whole  town.  Pretty  coarse  work,  it  looks  like  to  me." 

Jerome  Westbrook  nodded  slowly.  He  recalled  Sally 
Lester's  look. 

Of  all  the  six  faces  turned  toward  him  from  the  scat 
tered  little  group  of  the  coroner's  jury,  not  more  than 
two  showed  the  least  compassion  or  sympathy.  Don 
Lane's  hot  temper  smarted  under  the  renewed  sense 
of  the  injustice  which  had  assailed  him  yet  again. 

"What's  the  game?"  he  demanded.  "Why  am  I 
brought  here?  What's  the  matter  with  you  people? 
Do  you  mean  to  charge  me  with  killing  this  man  ?  What 
have  I  done  to  any  of  you?  Damn  your  town,  anyhow 
— the  rotten,  lying,  hypocritical  lot  of  you  all!" 

"The  less  you  say  the  better,"  said  the  coroner;  and 
the  sheriff's  steady  gaze  cautioned  Don  Lane  yet  more. 

"Now,  gentlemen,"  went  on  Blackman,  "we  have  heard 
a  number  of  witnesses  here,  and  we  have  not  found  any 
man  here  that  could  bring  forward  any  sight  or  sound 
of  any  suspicious  character  in  this  town.  There  hasn't 
been  a  tramp  or  outsider  seen  here,  unless  we  except  this 
young  man  now  testifying  here.  The  man  on  whose 

156 


X  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 


body  we  now  are  a-setting  hadn't  a  enemy  in  this  town, 
so  far  as  has  been  shown  here  —  no,  nor  so  far  as  any 
one  of  us  knows.  There  has  been  no  motive  proved  up 
here  which  would  lead  us  to  suspect  anyone  else  of 
this  crime." 

Ben  McQuaid  once  more  leaned  over  to  whisper  to 
his  seat-mate  :  "It's  a  likely  thing  a  man  would  be  run 
ning  for  his  health,  a  night  like  last  night,  when  he  didn't 
have  to!  Ain't  that  the  truth?" 

The  coroner  rapped  with  his  pencil  on  the  table  top. 
He  was  well  filled  with  the  sense  of  his  own  impor 
tance.  In  his  mind  he  was  procureur-general  for  Spring 
Valley.  And  in  his  mind  still  rankled  the  thought  of 
the  fiasco  in  his  courtroom  but  the  day  before,  in  which 
he  had  made  so  small  a  figure. 

"I  want  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Cowles,"  he  said,  turning 
to  the  sheriff,  "if  you  ever  have  seen  this  young  man 
before." 

"Only  once,"  said  the  sheriff,  standing  up.  "Last  night 
or  this  morning,  just  after  the  clock  had  struck  one  —  say, 
two  or  three  minutes  or  so  after  one  o'clock  —  I  was 
going  out  of  my  office  and  going  over  to  the  east  side 
of  the  square.  I  met  this  young  man  then.  As  he  says, 
he  was  running  —  that  is,  he  was  coming  back  from  this 
direction,  and  running  toward  the  southeast  corner  of 
the  square,  the  direction  of  his  own  home." 

"Was  he  in  a  hurry  —  did  he  seem  excited?" 

157 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"He  was  panting  a  little  bit.  He  was  running.  He 
didn't  seem  to  see  me." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  did,"  said  Don.  "I  remember  you  per 
fectly — that  is,  I  remember  perfectly  passing  some  man 
in  the  half  darkness  under  the  trees  as  I  came  along 
that  side  of  the  square.  As  I  said,  it  was  warm." 

"Now,  gentlemen,  we  have  thought  it  over  for  a  long 
time,"  said  the  coroner,  after  a  solemn  pause.  "We  must 
bring  in  our  verdict  before  long.  It  must  either  be  'party 
or  parties  unknown/  or  we  must  hold  someone  we  do 
suspect. 

"We  have  had  no  one  here  that  we  could  suspect  until 
now.  Take  this  young  man — he  is  practically  a  stranger. 
He  proves  himself  to  be  of  violent  and  ungovernable 
temper.  Allowed  to  go  once  from  the  justice  of  the  law, 
he  forgets  that  and  goes  violent  again.  He  assaults  a 
second  time  one  of  our  citizens,  Mr.  Adamson.  He  re 
sists  arrest  once  by  a  officer  of  the  law,  and  in  the 
same  afternoon  he  threatens  that  officer.  He  says,  'I'll 
get  you/ 

"This  young  man  is  seen  just  before  one  o'clock  run 
ning  over  in  this  direction.  Just  a  little  ahead  of  him 
the  victim  of  this  crime  was  seen  walking.  He  was 
killed,  as  his  daughter  testifies,  somewhere  just  about 
one  o'clock — it  was  at  that  time  that  he  staggered  into 
the  house  here. 

"Just  after  one  o'clock  this  young  man  is  seen  run- 

158 


IN  THE  NAME  OF  THE  LAW 

ning — one  of  the  hottest  nights  we  have  had  this  sum 
mer — running  away  from  the  scene  of  the  crime,  and 
toward  his  own  home. 

"I  don't  want  to  lead  your  own  convictions  in  any 
way.  I  am  willing  to  say,  however,  that  if  we  have  not 
found  a  man  to  hold  for  this  crime,  then  we  ain't  apt 
to  find  him !" 

"But,  gentlemen,  you  don't  mean" — poor  Don  began, 
his  face  pale  for  the  first  time,  a  sudden  terror  in  his 
soul — "you  can't  mean  that  /  did  this!" 

But  he  gazed  into  the  faces  of  six  men,  upon  whom 
rested  the  duty  of  vengeance  for  the  wrong  done  to 
the  society  which  they  represented.  Of  these  six  all 
but  two  were  openly  hostile  to  him,  and  those  two  were 
sad.  Rawlins,  minister  of  the  Church  of  Christ;  Nels 
Jorgens,  the  blacksmith — they  two  were  sad.  But  they 
two  also  were  citizens. 

"This  witness,"  went  on  Coroner  Blackman,  "has  in  a 
way  both  abused  us  and  defied  us.  He  said  he  was 
not  on  trial.  That  is  true.  We  can't  try  him.  All  we 
can  do  is  to  hold  any  man  on  whom  a  reas'nable  sus 
picion  of  this  crime  may  be  fixed.  We  could  hold  sev 
eral  suspects  here,  if  there  was  that  many.  All  we  do 
is  to  pass  the  whole  question  on  to  the  grand  jury  when 
it  meets  here.  That's  tomorrow  morning.  Before  the 
grand  jury  any  man  accused  can  have  his  own  counsel 
and  the  case  can  be  taken  up  more  conclusive.  So  the 

159 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


question  for  us  now  is,  Shall  we  call  it  'party  or  parties 
unknown/  or  shall  we " 

Don  Lane  dropped  into  a  seat,  his  face  in  his  hands, 
in  his  heart  the  bitter  cry  that  all  the  world  and  all 
the  powers  of  justice  governing  the  world  had  now  ut 
terly  forsaken  him.  The  sheriff  rose,  and  taking  him  by 
the  arm,  led  him  into  another  room. 

In  ten  minutes  a  half-dozen  reporters,  trooping  up 
from  the  train  and  waiting  impatiently  at  the  outer  door, 
knew  the  nature  of  the  verdict:  "We  the  jury  sitting 
upon  the  body  of  Joel  Tarbush,  deceased  by  violence, 
find  that  deceased  came  to  his  death  by  a  blow  from 
a  blunt  instrument  held  in  the  hands  of  Dieudonne 
Lane." 


CHAPTER  XII 
ANNE  OGLESBY 

JUDGE  WILLIAM  HENDERSON  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  front  room  of  his  cool  and  spacious 
office,  before  him  his  long  table  with  its  clean 
glass  top,  so  different  from  the  work-bench  of  the  aver 
age  country  lawyer.  Everything  about  him  was  modern 
and  perfect  in  his  office  equipment,  for  the  judge  had 
reached  the  period  in  his  development  in  which  he 
brought  in  most  of  his  own  personal  ideas  from  an  outer 
and  a  wider  world — that  same  world  which  now  occu 
pied  him  as  a  field  proper  for  one  of  his  ambitions. 

As  he  sat  he  was  a  not  unpleasing  figure  of  middle- 
aged  success.  His  gray  hair  was  swept  back  smoothly 
from  his  temples;  his  red  cheeks,  fresh  reaped,  bore 
the  tinge  of  health.  The  large  white  hand  before  him 
on  the  glass-topped  table  betokened  prosperity  and  suc 
cess  in  every  faint  and  fat-hid  line. 

Judge  Henderson  now  was  absorbed  in  the  contempla 
tion  of  a  bit  of  paper  which  lay  in  his  hand.  It  was 
a  message  from  the  telephone  company,  and  it  came 
from  Slattery,  county  prosecutor.  Something  in  it  was 
of  disturbing  nature.  Judge  Henderson's  brow  was  fur- 

161 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


rowed,  his  face  was  troubled.  He  seemed,  thus  alone 
and  not  stimulated  by  an  audience,  years  older  than  he 
had  been  but  now. 

He  had  been  looking  at  this  bit  of  paper  for  some 
time  so  intently  that  now  he  did  not  hear  his  hall  door 
open — did  not  see  one  who  paused  there  and  then  came, 
lightfooted,  swiftly,  across  the  space,  to  catch  him  and 
blindfold  him  as  he  sat.  He  heard  the  rustle  of  her 
skirts,  and  knew  at  once  the  deep  counterfeit  of  her 
voice. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  demanded,  her  hand  over  his  eyes. 

"Anne!"  he  exclaimed,  catching  at  her  hand.  "You 
are  here — when  did  you  come?" 

She  went  round  and  kissed  him.  "Just  now,"  said 
she,  "on  the  train  from  the  city.  You  were  not  expect 
ing  me?" 

"No,  not  at  all." 

"Well,  here  I  am,  Nunkie," — she  sometimes  called  her 
guardian  by  this  pet  name,  although  really  they  were 
not  akin — "I'm  finished  and  turned  out  complete — I'm 
done  my  college  work  now  and  ready  for  what  we  gradu 
ates  call  the  Battle  of  Life.  Do  you  think  I'll  do?" 

She  drew  back  and  made  him  a  pretty  curtsey,  spread 
ing  out  her  skirts.  Indeed,  she  was  very  fair  to  look 
upon  and  he  smiled  at  her  admiringly. 

"You  are  beautiful,  Anne,"  said  he.  "You  are  very 
beautiful — you  are  fine." 

162 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


"Do  I  please  you  in  every  way?"  said  she. 

'Perfectly,  my  dear.    You  cannot  do  otherwise." 

She  looked  at  him  demurely.  "I'm  not  so  sure," 
said  she.  "Wait  until  you  have  heard  all  I  have  to 
tell  you." 

"What's  wrong?    Are  you  in  debt?" 

"Worse  than  that,  Nunkie  dear — I'm  engaged !" 

Now  indeed  he  looked  at  her  with  sudden  consterna 
tion  in  his  face.  "What's  that?  You  haven't  told  me 
anything  of  the  sort." 

"I  never  knew  it  until  just  now — at  the  station."  She 
came  now  and  sat  down  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "It 
just  happened  yesterday — and  today." 

She  put  up  a  finger  to  her  lips  and  rubbed  them, 
fearing  that  he  might  see  there  the  flame  of  the  kiss 
they  but  now  had  borne. 

"Who  is  the  young  man — if  you  are  really  in  earnest 
about  all  this?  Where  did  you  meet  him?  Whoever  he 
is,  you've  hardly  done  your  duty  by  me.  I'm  your 
guardian — I  stand  in  loco  parentis  for  you.  When  did 
all  this  happen?" 

"Yesterday,  on  the  train.  I  didn't  expect  it  myself. 
But  I  promised.  He's  promised  me.  We  were  going  to 
tell  you  about  it  at  once." 

She  was  the  very  picture  of  happy  and  contented 
young  womanhood  as  she  spoke.  Not  so  happy  was 
the  man  whom  she  addressed. 

163 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"I  can't  guess  at  all  whom  you  mean,"  said  he.  "Is  he 
anybody — is  he  a  man  of  station — has  he  any  business — 
has  he  any  means?  How  old  is  he — who  is  he?" 

"I  can't  answer  so  many  questions  all  at  once,  Nunkie," 
said  she.  "But  I'm  going  to  be  very  happy,  I  know 
that.  Perhaps  you  can  answer  some  of  the  questions 
for  yourself — perhaps  you  know  him.  Well,  it's  Dieu- 
donne  Lane! — he's  in  town  right  now — a  schoolmate 
of  mine  for  four  years.  Surely,  I  know  all  about 
him." 

Judge  Henderson  swiftly  turned  and  looked  at  her 
steadily,  cold  consternation  on  his  face.  "Anne !"  he  ex 
claimed.  "That  can't  be !  It's  absurd.'-' 

"Oh,  I  expected  that/'  said  she  easily.  "That's  because 
he  hasn't  any  money.  I  knew  that.  As  for  his  family — 
he  told  me  long  ago  that  he  was  an  orphan,  that  his 
father  died  when  he  was  very  young,  and  left  only 
enough  for  his  education,  and  that  he  would  have  to 
make  his  own  way.  Very  well,  some  men  have  had 
to  do  that — you  have  had  to  yourself,  Nunkie,  isn't  it 
true  ?  And  Don  was  born  here  in  this  very  town " 

He  put  out  his  hand  over  hers  as  it  lay  upon  the 
table-top.  "Anne!"  said  he.  "My  child!  You're  but 
a  child — an  impulsive,  foolish  child.  What  have  you 
done?  You  have  not  pledged  your  word — to  him?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have.    I'm  promised — my  promise  is  given. 

More " 

164 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


"It's  folly  and  worse  than  folly.  It  can't  be — I  won't 
have  it — you  hear  me?"  He  broke  out  savagely  now. 

"I  heard  you — yes,  but  I'll  jolly  well  not  pay  too  much 
attention  to  you,  even  when  you  roar  at  me  that  way. 
As  I  understand  it,  I'm  of  age.  I've  been  studying 
for  four  years  to  get  ready  to  be  able  to  know  my  own 
mind — and  I  do !  My  own  heart  also.  And  I  know 
what's  due  me." 

He-r  voice  was  low  and  very  sweet,  but  the  man 
who  heard  her  winced  at  its  cutting  calm. 

"You  would  marry  a  man  like  that,  of  no  family, 
of  no  place,  of  no  name?" 

"Yes,  I've  just  said  that.  I  know  all  about  it.  We'll 
have  to  start  at  the  bottom;  and  I  ask  you,  didn't  you 
start  that  way?" 

"That's  an  entirely  different  proposition,  my  dear 
girl,"  said  her  guardian.  "Times  were  different  then. 
You  are  an  heiress — you  are  a  woman  of  family  and 
place — and  you  don't  have  to  go  back  to  the  old  days — 
you  don't  need  to  ruin  your  own  life  through  such  ter 
rible  beginnings. 

"But  now,  do  you  know  who  this  young  man's  people 
are?"  He  asked  this  last  after  a  considerable  pause, 
during  which  his  ward  sat  silent,  looking  at  him 
steadily. 

"Oh,  yes.  He  told  me  he  is  an  orphan — his  father's 
dead  long  ago.  And  his  mother " 

165 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"You  know  his  mother?" 

"Yes,  a  milliner — I  believe.     But  a  good  woman." 

"Ah !" 

She  still  looked  at  him,  smiling.  "I  am  'advanced/ 
you  see,  Nunkie!  In  college  we  studied  things.  I  don't 
care  for  the  social  rank — I  want  to  marry  a  man.  I 
love  Don.  I  love — well,  that  kind  of  man.  I'm  so 
happy!" 

She  squeezed  him  tight  in  a  sudden  warm  embrace. 
"I  love  all  the  world,  I  believe,  Nunkie — even  you,  and 
you  are  an  old  bear,  as  everybody  knows !  And  I  thank 
you  for  all  those  papers  in  the  long  envelopes — with  the 
lines  and  the  crosses  on  them,  and  the  pencil  mark  'Sign 
here' — powers  of  attorney  and  receipts,  and  bonds  and 
shares  and  mortgages  and  certificates — all  that  sort  of 
thing.  Am  I  very  rich,  Nunkie?" 

"Not  very,  as  heiresses  go  these  days,  said  he. 
"You're  worth  maybe  four  or  five  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  not  very  much.  But;  that's  not  the  question. 
That's  not  really  everything  there  is  at  stake  in  this — 
although  I'm  well  enough  satisfied  that's  all  this  young 
man  cares  for." 

"Thank  you!"  said  she  proudly.  "I  had  not  known 
that." 

"A  good  many  things  you  have  not  known,  my  dear. 
Now  listen  here.  Do  you  know  what  this  marriage  would 
mean  to  me?  I  want  to  be  United  States  Senator  from 

166 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


this  state — and  everything  bids  fair  to  see  my  ambition 
gratified.  But  politics  is  a  ticklish  game." 

"Well,  wh&t  on  earth  has  that  to  do  with  me  and  Don  ?" 

"It  has  everything  to  do!  I'm  not  'advanced/  I'm 
old  fashioned  enough  to  know  that  social  rank  does  count 
in  my  business  at  least.  In  politics  every  little  thing 
counts ;  so  I  tell  you,  for  every  reason  in  the  world  you 
must  dismiss  this  young  man  from  your  thoughts.  You 
are  quixotic,  I  know — you  are  stubborn,  like  your  mother 
— a  good  woman,  but  stubborn." 

He  was  arguing  with  her,  but  Anne  could  not  read 
his  face,  although  she  sought  to  do  so — there  seemed 
some  veil  hiding  his  real  thoughts.  And  his  face  was 
troubled.  She  thought  he  had  aged  very  much. 

"In  one  particular  matter,"  said  she  slowly,  at  last. 
"It  seems  to  me  a  woman  should  be  stubborn.  She 
should  have  her  own  say  about  the  man  she  is  to 
marry." 

"How  much  time  have  you  had  to  decide  on  this  ?" 

"Plenty.  Twenty-four  hours,  or  a  little  less — no,  I'll 
say  twenty  minutes.  Plenty.  Uncle — he  kissed  me — be 
fore  the  world.  I  can't  take  it  back — we  have  given — 
I  have  promised.  Uncle,  I  have  promised — well,  all 
through  me." 

"Stop  where  you  are !"  said  he.  "Have  you  disgraced 
us  all  so  soon?  Has  it  gone  so  far?  However  that 
is,  you  shall  go  no  further." 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


He  rose,  his  fingers  on  the  table-top,  rapping  in  em 
phasis. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "I  am  older  than  you,  and  I  have 
seen  the  world  more  than  you  have.  I  recognize  fully 
enough  the  dynamic  quality  of  what  you  call  love — what 
I  call  merely  sex  in  younger  human  beings.  It  is  a 
thing  of  extreme  seriousness,  that's  true.  But  the  surest 
thing  about  all  that  sort  of  thing  is  that  it  changes, 
it  passes.  You  will  forget  all  this." 

"You  do  me  much  honor!"  said  Anne  Oglesby,  color 
ing.  "You  speak  with  much  delicacy.  But  love  me,  love 
my  lover." 

The  swift  resistance  of  a  strong  nature  seemed  sud 
denly  to  flash  out  at  Judge  Henderson  from  her  gray 
eyes.  Suddenly  he  turned  and  took  her  arm.  He  es 
corted  her  to  the  inner  room,  which  served  as  his  own 
study  and  consultation  chambers. 

"Come  here,"  said  he.  "We'll  have  to  talk  this  thing 
over  quietly.  This  is  a  terrible  matter — you  don't  know 
how  terrible.  There's  a  lot  under  this  that  you  don't 
know  at  all.  Anne,  my  dear  girl,  what  can  I  say  to  you 
to  alter  you  in  this  foolish  resolve?" 

"Nothing !  I'm  going  to  see  his  mother  this  very  after 
noon.  He  told  me  to  come,  so  I  could  meet  his 
mother " 

"You're  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  kind !"  said  Judge 
Henderson  in  sudden  anger.  "You're  going  to  stay 

168 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


here  and  listen  to  reason,  that's  what  you're  going  to 
do !  You  undertake  to  go  into  a  situation  which  reaches 
wider  than  this  town,  wider  than  this  state,  do  you?  It 
is  your  duty,  then,  to  prevent  me  from  my  duty?  Are 
you  so  selfish,  so  egotistic  as  all  that?" 

She  smiled  at  him  amusedly,  cynically,  a  wide  and 
frank  smile,  which  irritated  him  unspeakably.  He 
frowned. 

"It  is  time  now  for  you  to  reflect.  First — as  you 
say — this  young  man  has  no  father.  His  mother " 

He  paused  suddenly,  his  pallid  face  working  strangely 
now.  The  shrill  summons  of  the  telephone  close  at  his 
hand  as  he  sat  had  caused  him  to  start,  but  it  was  with 
relief.  He  took  down  the  receiver  and  placed  his  hand 
for  the  moment  over  the  mouthpiece. 

"Aurora  Lane — you  don't  know  about  her?"  he 
began. 

Then  she  saw  a  sudden  change  of  expression  which 
passed  over  his  face.  "Yes — yes,"  he  said,  into  the  tele 
phone.  "The  jury  has  brought  in  its  verdict?  What's 
that? " 

The  phone  dropped  clattering  from  his  hand  on  the 
desk,  so  shaking  and  uncertain  was  his  grasp.  He 
turned  to  his  ward  slowly. 

"You  don't  know!"  said  he.  "You  don't  know  what 
that  was  I  have  just  heard  this  moment !  Well,  I'll  tell 
you.  Dieudonne  Lane  has  been  held  to  the  grand  jury 

169 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


— while  we've  been  sitting  here.  They've  charged  him 
with  the  murder  of  Tarbush,  the  city  marshal.  My  God ! 
Anne " 

It  seemed  an  hour  to  both  before  she  spoke.  Her 
face,  first  flushed,  then  pale,  became  set  and  cold  as 
she  looked  toward  the  man  who  brought  this  news.  Once 
she  flinched ;  then  pulled  together.  But  yesterday  a  girl, 
this  hour  a  young  woman,  now  she  was  all  at  once  ma 
ture,  resolved. 

"You  heard  me,  did  you  not?"  he  went  on,  his  voice 
rising.  "Charged — with  murder!  No  one  in  the  world 
knew  he  was  alive — no  one  but  you,  and  you  never  told 
me  of  him — no  one  ever  dreamed  of  him  till  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  when  he  came  blundering  in  here — 
out  of  his  grave,  I  say!  And  in  twenty- four  hours  he 
has  made  his  record  here — and  this  is  his  record.  Do 
you  know  what  this  means  ?  He  may  not  come  through 
— I  want  to  say  the  chances  look  bad  for  him,  very  bad 
indeed."  Judge  Henderson's  smooth  face  showed  more 
agitation  than  ever  it  had  in  all  his  life  before. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  after  a  long  time,  reaching  out 
a  hand  to  him,  "now  is  your  opportunity!" 

"What  do  you  mean?  My  opportunity?  It's — it's  a 
terrible  thing — you  don't  know." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  you  say  you  have  been  in  the  place 
of  a  parent  to  me.  That's  true — I  owe  you  much — you 
have  been  good — you  have  been  kind.  Be  good,  be  kind 

170 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


now !  Oh,  don't  you  see  what  is  your  duty  ?  Now  you 
can  use  your  learning,  your  wisdom,  your  oratory.  You 
can  save  Don — for  me.  You're  my  parent — can't  you  be 
his,  too  ?  We're  both  orphans — can't  you  be  a  father  for 
us  both?  Of  course  you  will  defend  him.  He  hasn't 
much.  He  couldn't  pay  you  now.  But  I  have  money — 
you've  just  told  me  that  I  have. 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  mean  that,  about  the  money — but  lis 
ten,"  she  went  on,  since  he  made  no  reply.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  desert  him  now  that  he's  in  trouble?  Do  you 
think  any  woman  of  my  family  would  do  that?  We're 
not  so  low,  I  trust,  either  of  us,  either  side.  You  are  not 
so  low  as  that,  I  trust,  yourself.  Why,  you'd  not  desert 
anyone,  surely  not  an  orphan  boy,  just  starting  out — 
you'd  never  in  the  world  do  that,  I  know." 

In  answer  he  smoothed  out  before  her  on  the  desk  top 
the  crumpled  paper  he  had  held  in  his  hand. 

"This,"  said  he,  "was  brought  to  me  just  before  you 
came  in  yourself.  Before  you  told  me  of  this  affair, 
I  was  retained  by  the  state's  attorney  to  assist  in  the 
prosecution  of  the  perpetrator  of  this  crime,  whoever  he 
might  be.  I  must  say  it  is  one  of  the  most  terrible  crimes 
ever  known  in  this  community.  The  man  who  did  it 
must  pass  from  among  his  fellow  men  forever.  It  is 
my  duty  to  accept  this  retainer  for  the  prosecution, 
as  I  have  done " 

"What — as  you  have  done  ? — You'd  help  prosecute  him 

171 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


— you'd  help  send  him  to  the  gallows,  if  you  could— as 
innocent  as  he  is?  You — you — and  he  has  no  one  to 
counsel  with — only  a  poor  woman,  a  widow,  who's  never 
had  a  chance — he  an  orphan,  without  a  friend!  You'd 
do  that?" 

His  large  white  hand  was  raised  restrainingly.  "We 
must  both  be  calm,"  said  he.  "I've  got  to  think." 

"Why,  where  will  Don  go — where  will  they  put  him?" 

"He  will  go  to  jail,  and  be  there  until  the  grand  jury 
meets — longer  than  that,  perhaps — and  yet  longer,  if  the 
trial  judge  and  jury  bring  a  verdict  against  him !" 

"But  that's  taking  him  away  from  me — right  now — 
that's  not  right ! — Can't  he  get  out  ?" 

"He  might  perhaps  be  released  on  bail  if  the  bail  were 
large  enough,  but  the  crime  is  the  maximum  crime,  and 
the  suspicion  is  most  severe.  I  don't  know  what  means 
he  can  command,  but  he  needs  counsel  now. 

"But  one  thing,  Anne,"  he  added,  "I  forbid  you.  You 
must  have  nothing  to  do  with  him.  Keep  away  from 
him.  Go  home,  and  don't  meddle  in  this  case.  It  must 
take  its  course." 

"I  would  follow  him  to  the  foot  of  the  gallows,  if 
need  be,  Judge  Henderson !"  broke  out  Anne  Oglesby  in 
a  sudden  flare  of  passionate  anger.  "Ah,  fine! — to  give 
your  word,  your  promise — to  give  your  love,  and  then 
within  an  hour  forget  it  all — to  leave  the  one  you  love 
when  the  trouble  comes !  Is  that  all  one  gains — is  that 

172 


ANNE  OGLE  SB  Y 


all  one  may  expect — is  that  all  a  woman  ought  to  do 
for  the  man  she  loves  ?  Is  that  all  she  ought  to  expect 
from  a  man?  Suppose  it  were  I  in  trouble — would  he 
forget  me  ?  Would  he  forsake  me  ?  Then  shall  I  ?  You 
don't  know  me  if  you  think  that  of  me ! 

"You  don't  know  me  at  all,"  she  blazed  on  at  him, 
as  he  turned  away.  "I've  tried  to  reason.  Whatever 
my  success  at  that,  the  answer's  in  my  own  heart  now." 
(Her  heart,  now  beating  so  fast  under  the  heaving  bosom 
on  which  both  her  hands  were  clasped.) 

"And  you  forget  me?  I — I'm  in  trouble  now — it's 
awful — it's  a  terrible  trouble  that  I'm  in  now."  Judge 
Henderson's  voice  was  trembling,  his  face  was  pale. 

"You — in  what  way  am  I  bound  to  you?  Trouble — 
what  do  you  mean?  Why,  listen! — All  your  life  you 
have  lived  with  just  one  aim  and  purpose  and  ambition 
in  your  heart — and  that  was  yourself!  Your  own  am 
bition — your  own  pleasure,  your  own  comfort — those 
were  the  things  that  have  controlled  you  always — don't 
I  know,  haven't  I  heard?  You've  been  a  very  leech 
in  this  town — you  have  taken  all  the  success  in  it — all 
the  success  of  everybody,  from  all  its  people — and  used 
it  for  yourself !  It  has  been  so  common  to  you — you 
are  so  used  to  it — that  you  can't  think  of  anything 
else — you  can't  visualize  anything  else.  You  think  of 
yourself  as  the  source  and  center  of  all  good — you  can't 
help  that — that's  your  nature.  So  I  suppose  you  think 

173 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


you  are  altogether  within  your  rights  when  you  tell  me 
that  I  must  wreck  and  ruin  my  own  life  to  save  you 
and  your  ambition!  Why,  you  are — you're  a  sponge — 
that's  what  you  are — you  are  just  soaking  in  all  the 
happiness  of  others — all  the  success  of  others,  I  tell  you 
— taking  it  all  for  yourself.  'Our  most  prominent  citi 
zen  P  Great  God !  But  what  has  it  cost  this  community 
to  produce  you — what  are  you  asking  it  to  cost  me 
and  those  I  love?  Drops  in  the  same  bucket?  Food 
for  you  and  your  ambition?  Do  you  think  I  am  go 
ing  to  stand  that,  when  it  comes  to  me — me  and  him — 
the  man  I  have  promised — the  man  I  love?  You  don't 
know  me!  You  don't  know  him!  We'll  fight!" 

He  sat,  so  astounded  at  this  sudden  outburst — the  first 
thing  of  the  kind  he  had  ever  heard  from  any  human 
being  in  all  his  life — that  for  the  time  he  could  make 
no  reply  at  all.  She  went  on  bitterly  now : 

""Men  like  you,  sponges  like  yourself,  have  made  what 
they  call  success  in  all  the  ages  of  the  world — yes,  that's 
true.  Great  kings,  great  cardinals,  great  politicians,  great 
business  men,  great  thieves  have  made  that  kind  of  a 
success,  that's  true  enough — I've  read  about  them,  yes. 
Men  of  that  sort — Judge  Henderson — sometimes  they 
stop  at  nothing.  They'd  betray  their  very  own.  I'm 
not  your  blood,  but  if  I  were,  I'd  not  trust  you!  Men 
like  you  are  so  absorbed  with  their  own  vanity,  their 
own  selfishness — they're  so  used  to  having  everything 

174 


ANNE  OGLESBY 


given  to  them  without  exertion,  without  cost,  they  grow 
regardless  of  what  that  cost  may  be  to  the  ones  that 
do  the  giving.  In  time  they  begin  to  think  themselves 
apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world — don't  you  think  that 
about  yourself  now  ?  Oh,  are  you  better  than  the  world  ? 
Or  are  you  just  a  man,  like  the  rest  of  them?  Didn't 
you  ever  know — didn't  you  ever  kiss  a  woman  in  all  your 
life  and  know  what  that  meant?" 

He  had  sat,  his  shocked  face  turned  toward  her,  too 
stunned  for  answer.  But  she  saw  him  start  as  though 
under  the  blow  of  a  dagger  at  her  last  words. 

"Don't  think  this  hasn't  hurt,"  said  she,  more  com 
posedly  now.  "It's  the  truth  as  far  as  I  know  it.  With 
your  power,  your  influence,  you  could  get  him  free — soon 
— very  soon — perhaps.  You  could  make  us  both  happy. 
But,  so  you  say,  that  would  make  you  unhappy !  I  know 
you  well  enough  to  know  what  the  decision  will  be  in 
a  case  like  that,  Judge  Henderson! 

"As  for  me — "  she  was  closer  to  him  now,  utterly 
fearless,  as  a  woman  is  who  loves  and  sees  the  object 
of  her  love  threatened — "our  paths  part  here,  now !  I'm 
of  age  and  my  own  mistress.  I  know  my  own  mind, 
as  I've  told  you.  I'm  going  to  stay — I'm  going  to  stick 
— do  you  hear?  I'm  going  to  love  him  long  as  he  lives. 
I'm  going  to  marry  him,  if  it's  in  a  jail!" 

Judge  Henderson  only  began  to  wag  his  head  now 
from  side  to  side.  His  face  had  gone  ghastly. 

175 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Why,  Uncle  dear" — she  came  over  to  him  now — "for 
give  me  if  I've  been  too  outspoken — it's  only  because  I'm 
so  strained." 

"Myself  also/'  he  groaned.  "Strain  ?  Why,  yes.  You 
don't  know — you  don't  know!" 

Suddenly  she  changed  once  more,  still  the  woman, 
still  the  young  girl,  as  yet  half  ignorant  of  life,  her 
hands  still  on  her  heaving  bosom  now,  the  faint  flush 
back  in  her  cheeks. 

"He  kissed  me,  Uncle !"  said  she.  "I  don't  know  much, 
but  it  seems  to  me  if  a  man  kisses  a  woman — in  that 
way — it's  life  for  her  and  him !  They  can't  help  it  after 
that.  After  that,  a  woman's  got  to  do  just  all  she  can 
in  the  game  of  life — and  he's  got  to  do  the  best  he 
knows.  They  can't  help  it.  He  kissed  me.  .  .  .  And  I 
told  you  I'll  not  desert  him.  It  wouldn't  be  right.  And, 
right  or  wrong,  I  can't — I  can't!" 

Panting,  the  tears  now  almost  ready  to  drop  from 
her  moist  eyes,  she  stood,  a  beautiful  picture  of  young 
womanhood,  so  soft,  so  fully  fitted  for  love  and  love's 
caresses ;  and  now  so  wronged  out  of  her  love  by  sudden 
fate.  But  in  her  there  was  no  sign  of  weakness  or  of 
yielding.  The  man  who  faced  her  felt  the  truth  of 
that.  His  own  face  now  was  far  the  more  irresolute 
of  the  two — far  the  more  agitated. 

Suddenly,  haggard,  frowning,  he  rose,  at  a  sound 
which  he  heard  in  the  outer  room.  Someone  had  entered. 

176 


ANNE  OGLE  SB  Y 


As  he  stepped  to  the  door  between  the  two  rooms, 
Judge  Henderson  turned,  his  finger  on  his  lips,  and  made 
signs  that  Anne  should  remain  where  she  was,  undis 
covered.  The  door  hung  just  a  trifle,  wedged  open  by 
the  corner  of  a  fallen  rug.  Judge  Henderson  had  not 
time,  or  did  not  think,  to  close  it  wholly.  He  stood  face 
to  face  with  the  newcomer. 

It  was  Aurora  Lane! 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

AURORA  LANE  and  Judge  Henderson  both 
started  back  as  they  faced  one  another.  For 
the  moment  neither  spoke. 

Aurora  was  pale,  quite  beyond  her  wont,  haggard- 
looking  about  the  eyes.  She  had  come  direct  from  her 
home,  without  alteration  of  her  usual  daily  costume. 
In  spite  of  all,  she  was  very  far  from  uncomely  as 
she  stood  now,  about  her  the  old  indefinable  stamp  of 
class  which  always  had  clung  to  her.  Certainly  she 
was  quite  the  equal  in  appearance  of  this  tall  man,  soft 
from  easy  living,  who  faced  her  now,  a  trifle  pasty  of 
skin,  a  trifle  soft  about  the  jaws,  a  trifle  indefinite 
about  the  waist — a  man  with  a  face  as  pale  and  haggard 
as  her  own. 

Tense  as  she  was,  her  long  schooling  in  repression 
stood  her  in  such  stead  as  to  leave  her  in  the  better 
possession  of  self-control. 

"My  dear — my  dear  Madam "  began  Judge  Hen 
derson. 

The  hearer  in  the  room  beyond  must  have  caught 
the  pause  in  his  voice,  its  agitation — and  must  have 

178 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

heard  the  even  tones  of  the  woman  as  she  spoke  at 
last,  after  a  long  silence. 

"I  have  come  to  your  office,  as  you  know,  for  the 
first  time,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  She  gave  him  no  title, 
no  formal  address.  "It  is  the  first  time  in  twenty  years." 

"You  have  lived  a  somewhat  secluded  life,  yes,  my 
dear  Madam."  His  voice,  his  manner,  his  attitude,  all 
were  labored.  He  at  least  knew  or  suspected  that  he 
was  talking  to  two  women,  and  not  one;  for  there  was 
no  way  for  Anne  to  escape  and  no  way  in  which  he 
could  be  sure  she  did  not  hear. 

"You  know  about  him — about  the  boy?  Of  course, 
everyone  in  town  does.  He  didn't  die.  He's  been  away 
— in  college.  I  never  wanted  him  to  see  this  place.  But 
now  he's  come  back — you  know  all  about  it.  He's  in  jail. 
We've  been  thinking  perhaps  you  could  do  something — 
that  you  would  help  us." 

Her  high,  clear,  staccato  voice,  easily  audible  far, 
now  showed  her  own  keyed-up  condition. 

Judge  Henderson  raised  a  large  white  hand.  "My 
dear  Madam,"  said  he,  himself  very  far  from  calm,  "let 
us  be  calm!  Let  us  above  all  things  be  calm  and  prac 
tical." 

Aurora  Lane's  face  froze  into  a  sudden  icy  mask 
of  wonder,  of  astonishment.  She  gulped  a  little.  "I'm 
trying  to  be  calm.  I'm  desperate,  or  I'd  never  have 
come  here.  You  know  that." 

179 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


He  was  mumbling  and  clucking  in  his  throat,  ges 
turing  imploringly,  trying  to  stop  her  swift  speech, 
which  might  be  overheard,  but  she  went  on,  not  under 
standing. 

"Until  just  now  I  was  so  happy.  He  was  done  with 
his  schooling — ready  to  go  out  at  his  work.  The  ex 
penses  were  very  heavy  for  us,  but  we've  managed. 
Look!" 

She  drew  from  her  worn  pocketbook  the  single  bill 
that  she  had  left  in  all  the  world,  a  tight-creased,  worn 
thing.  "In  some  way  I've  managed  to  hold  on  to  this," 
said  she.  "It's  all  I've  got  left  in  all  the  world.  That's 
my  twenty-odd  years  of  savings — except  what  I've  spent 
to  bring  up  my  boy.  I've  got  no  more." 

"My  dear  Madam,"  said  Judge  Henderson  again,  sigh 
ing,  "life  certainly  has  its  trials  at  times."  A  remark 
sufficiently  banal  to  pass  muster  with  both  his  hearers, 
Aurora  Lane  here  and  Anne  Oglesby  in  the  room  be 
yond.  But,  still  ignorant  of  any  other  auditor,  Aurora 
went  on  as  though  she  had  not  heard  him : 

"I  thought  I'd  come  and  talk  to  you — at  last.  If  only 
Don  could  get  out,  I'd  be  willing  to  leave  with  him. 
We'd  never  trouble  anybody  any  more."  Her  face  was 
turned  to  him  beseechingly. 

"I  know,  of  course,  that  you  could  save  him  if  you 
liked.  .  .  .  I've  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it.  Don't  you 
want  to  do  this  for  him — for  us — how  can  you  help 

180 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

wanting  to?  You,  of  all  men!  My  God!  Oh,  my 
God!" 

"Hush !  Hush !  Don't  speak  so  loud  !  Pray  compose 
yourself,  my  dear  Madam,"  exclaimed  Judge  Henderson, 
himself  so  far  from  composed.  His  own  face  was 
ghastly  in  its  open  apprehension.  "He's  ruined  himself, 
that's  all,  that  boy,"  he  concluded  lamely. 

She  stood  before  him,  stony  cold,  for  a  time,  growing 
whiter  and  whiter. 

"And  what  about  my  own  ruin?  What  does  it  leave 
to  me,  if  they  take  my  boy — all  I  have  in  the  world? 
I  didn't  think  you  could  hesitate  a  moment — not  even 
you!"  Her  voice,  icy  cold,  was  that  of  another 
woman. 

He  turned  from  her,  flinging  out  his  hands.  "He  has 

disgraced  you "  he  began,  still  weakly;  for  he  at 

least  knew  he  was  doubly  on  the  defensive  now,  before 
these  two  women,  terrible  in  their  love. 

"No,  he  has  not!"  flared  Aurora  Lane  at  last.  "If 
I've  had  disgrace  it's  not  through  any  fault  of  his.  If 
he  raised  a  hand  in  my  defense,  it  was  the  first  man's 
hand  that  has  been  raised  for  me  in  all  this  town — 
in  all  my  life!" 

She  held  before  him  again  the  tight-folded  little  bill, 
seeking  with  trembling  fingers  to  unfold  it  so  that  he 
might  see  its  pitifully  small  denomination.  She  shook  it 
in  his  face  in  sudden  rage.  "That's  my  life  savings! 

181 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


If  there  was  such  a  thing  as  justice  in  the  world,  would 
I  be  helpless  as  this — so  helpless  that  I  could  find  it 
possible  to  come  here  to  talk  to  you  ?  Justice  ?  Justice  ! 
Ah,  my  God  in  heaven !" 

Aurora  Lane's  voice  was  slightly  rising.  She  was 
fronting  him  in  the  last  courage  of  despair.  "You'd 
see  that  boy  perish — you'd  let  him  die?  If  I  thought 
that  was  true,  I'd  be  willing  to  do  everything  I  could 
to  ruin  this  town.  I'd  pull  the  roof  down  on  it  if  I 
were  strong  enough.  I'd  throw  myself  away,  indeed. 
I'd  curse  God — I'd  die.  Above  all,  I'd  curse  you,  with 
my  last  breath." 

Anne,  in  the  next  room,  rooted  in  the  horror  of  her 
silence,  could  not  have  heard  his  reply,  but  almost  she 
might  have  pictured  him,  standing  white,  ghastly,  trem 
bling,  as  he  was  when  he  heard  these  words. 

"But  you  can't  do  it — you  can't  deny  him — he's  a 

human  being  like  yourself — he's  part  of Ah,  you'll 

get  him  free,  I  know!"  Aurora's  voice  was  pleading 
now.  Judge  Henderson's  own  voice  was  hoarse,  un 
natural,  when  at  last  he  got  it. 

"Look  at  this  message,"  he  croaked,  in  a  half  whisper ; 
and  showed  her  the  crumpled  bit  of  paper  which  he 
had  held  in  his  own  hand.  He  beckoned  to  her — yet 
again — for  silence,  but  she  did  not  understand. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Aurora.    "What  do  you  mean?" 

"From  the  state's  attorney!  I  have  accepted  this  re- 

182 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

tainer.     I'm  of  the  prosecution!     You  have  come  too 
late.    What  can  I  do  ?" 

"Prosecution — what  do  you  mean?  Prosecute  him — 
Don?  Too  late — my  God!  Am  I  always  too  late — is 
it  always  in  all  the  world  for  me — too  late!  Prosecute 
him?  What  do  you  mean?'' 

The  sudden,  wailing  cry  broke  from  her.  Then  her 
voice  trailed  off  into  a  whisper — a  whisper  which  might 
have  been  heard  very  far — which  was  heard  through  the 
half-closed  door  which  led  to  the  inner  room.  "Too 
late!"  And  at  length  the  long-tried  soul  of  Aurora 
Lane  broke  out  in  a  final  and  uncontrolled  rebellion,  all 
bounds  down,  all  restraint  forgotten,  every  instinct  at 
last  released  of  its  long  fettering: 

"You  disown  him — you'd  disown  your  own  flesh  and 
blood — you'd  let  him  die !  Why,  you'd  betray  your  own 
Master  for  the  price  of  office  and  of  honor!  Oh,  I 
know,  I  know!  The  limelight!  Publicity!  Oh,  you 
Judas! — Ah,  Judas!  Judas!  You,  his  father!  your 
own  son!" 

Then  sobs,  deep,  convulsive. 

Came  sudden  rustling  of  garments  in  the  adjoining 
room.  The  intervening  door  was  flung  wide.  Anne 
Oglesby,  her  face  pale,  tense,  came  out  into  the  room 
where  stood  these  two. 

"What  is  this?"  she  demanded  of  Judge  Henderson. 
"This  is  Mrs.  Lane  ?  Don's  your  sonf" 

183 


THB  BROKEN  GATE 


She  turned  to  Aurora  inquiringly. 

"I  have  heard — I  could  not  help  hearing.  His  father ! 
Don  told  me  his  father  was  dead.  What's  all  this? 
Tell  me  r 

For  a  moment  they  stood  apart,  three  individuals  only. 
Then,  slowly,  with  subtle  affiliation  of  sex,  the  women 
drew  together,  allied  against  the  man. 

It  was  Anne  who  again  was  first  to  speak.  Her  voice 
was  high,  clear,  cold  as  ice,  with  a  patrician  note  which 
came  from  somewhere  out  of  the  past. 

"Let  me  have  all  this  quite  plain,"  said  she.  "Mrs. 
Lane  said  'flesh  and  blood!'  Mrs.  Lane  said  'your  own 
son!'  I  heard  her.  What  does  it  mean?" 

"This  is  what  it  means !"  said  Aurora  Lane,  suddenly 
drawing  Anne  to  her  closely,  after  her  one  swift  glance. 
"My  boy's  in  jail.  This — this  man — Judge  Henderson — 
is  his  father.  He  says  he's  hired  to  murder  him — and 
he's  our  child." 

"I  didn't  know !"  broke  out  Judge  Henderson,  now 
facing  both  his  hearers.  "I  never  knew !  You  said  he 
was  dead — you  told  me  so.  It's  all  half  a  lifetime  ago. 
I've  had  nothing  to  do  with  you,  nor  you  with  me, 
since  we  broke  off  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  That 
was  as  you  wished.  God !  I  was  only  a  man.  You  said 
the  child  died/' 

"Yes,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  turning  to  Anne ;  "that's 
true — I  did.  I  told  that  one  lie  to  protect  the  boy.  I 

184 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

sent  him  away  when  he  was  a  baby  to  protect  him.  I 
said  he  was  dead — to  protect  him — to  keep  him  from 
ever  knowing.  But  you  know — you  saw  him — you  felt 
it — you  must  have  known,  yesterday."  She  confronted 
the  trembling  man  once  more. 

"Yesterday?"  said  Anne  Oglesby. 

"Yes.  There  was  another  trial  then — and  Judge  Hen 
derson  prosecuted  then  also!"  She  turned  again  to  him 
for  his  answer. 

"I  dropped  the  case." 

"You  dropped  it  because  you  wer-e  paid  to  drop  it! 
You  traded  another  man  out  of  his  own  life's  ambition — 
a  better  man  than  you  are — that's  what  you  did  when 
you  dropped  the  case.  There's  nothing  more  to  trade — 
we've  nothing  more  to  pay — but  how  can  you  prosecute 
him — now — when  his  very  life's  at  stake — when  he's 
charged  with  murder  ?  The  punishment's  death !  You'd 
send  him  to  the  gallows  now — my  boy — and  yours  ?  You 
didn't  know  him  then !  Is  it  likely  ?  Don't  lie  about 
it — if  you  didn't  know  him,  why  didn't  you?  Were  you 
so  busy  looking  at  your  own  picture  on  the  wall — so 
wrapped  up  in  your  own  ambitions,  that  you  couldn't 
see  anything  else?  Couldn't  you  see  your  own  flesh 
and  blood — and  mine?  What's  twenty  years?  Haven't 
I  lived  them,  and  wouldn't  I  know  him — didn't  I — 
when  I  saw  him  ?  You  Judas !" 

Motionless,  she  stood  looking  at  the  speechless  man 

185 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


before  her,  until  she  felt  the  closer  drawing  to  her  of 
the  tall  young  beauty  at  her  side. 

"And  you're  Anne?"  she  said,  turning  to  the  girl, 
her  own  large  dark  eyes  now  soft.  "I  know.  He  loves 
you,  Don.  Has  he  said  good-by  to  you?  Has  he  said 
he  wasn't  worthy  of  you,  because  he  had — no  father? 
This  is  his  father — Don's  father — Judge  William  Hen 
derson.  He'll  not  deny  it.  I  told  Don  he  mustn't  think 
of  you — of  all  women  in  the  world — just  because  you  are 
so  close  to  Judge  Henderson — Don's  father. 

"Now  you  see  why  I  told  my  boy  that  lie — I  didn't 
want  him  ever  to  know  his  father — yes,  I'd  told  him 
his  father  was  dead.  And  I  don't  want  to  seem  a  worse 
liar  to  my  own  boy — I've  been  bad  enough,  the  way 
it  is.". 

She  felt  Anne  Oglesby's  arm  draw  her  closer  yet,  felt 
the  soft  warm  body  of  the  girl  against  her  own. 

"I  make  only  trouble,"  said  Aurora,  murmuring.  "And 
you — you're  so  beautiful.  I  don't  blame  him." 

"I  love  him,  too!"  said  Anne  Oglesby  steadily.  "I'm 
not  going  to  give  him  up." 

Aurora  Lane's  tears  came  then. 

"You — you  two  women — "  gasped  Judge  Henderson — 
"do  you  know  what  you're  doing  here?  Do  you  think 
I  don't  suffer,  too  ?"  Then  Anne  saw  that  every  accusa 
tion  Aurora  Lane  had  made  was  true  and  more  than 
true. 

186 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

"About  that  trial  yesterday" — he  turned  to  Aurora — 
"I  did  have  some  sort  of  superstitious  feeling — I  own 
that — I  couldn't  account  for  it — I  couldn't  explain  it. 
But  you  had  assured  me  that  your — our — er — the  child 
— had  died  in  infancy.  I  thought — I  hoped  it  was  only 
my  own  guilty  conscience  making  me  see  things.  I — 
I  have  had  a  conscience.  But  I  knew  nothing — we'd  not 
met  for  years." 

"That's  all  true,"  said  Aurora  to  Anne,  nodding  to 
ward  Judge  Henderson.  "I've  scarce  spoken  more  than 
twenty  words  to  him  in  twenty  years.  I've  kept  the 
secret,  and  carried  the  blame.  Until  yesterday  Don 
never  knew  about  himself — about  his  having  no  fa 
ther.  He  hasn't  a  guess  even  now  who  his  father  was — 
or  is — at  least  he'll  never  make  the  right  guess.  No 
one  has,  no  one  ever  will.  They  may  wrong  another 
man,  but  they'll  not  suspect  the  right  one." 

She  felt  the  strong  young  arm  of  Anne  still  about 
her,  and  so  went  on,  nodding  again  toward  Judge  Hen 
derson — "I  asked  him  to  defend  his  own  son — you  heard 
me,  then  ?  And  he's  told  me  he's  hired  to  hang  his  son ! 
And  I  called  him  'Judas/  And  I  pray  God  to  sink  him 
in  hell  if  he  does  this  work.  After  all,  there  must 
be  a  hell  somewhere — I  think  there  must  be.  This  is 
not  right — it's  not  right!  I've  stood  it  all  till  now,  but 
I  can't  stand  this." 

"Wait !"  exclaimed  Judge  Henderson.  "Give  me  time 

187 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


to  think,  I  tell  you!  My  whole  life's  up  on  this,  as 
well  as  yours.  You've  had  twenty  years  to  think  about 
this,  and  I've  not  had  that  many  minutes.  You  and  I've 
not  met,  I  say — our  paths  have  lain  totally  apart.  It 
was  in  the  past — we'd  lived  it  down." 

"We  had  lived  it  down!"  Aurora  Lane's  laugh  was 
bitter  enough,  and  she  made  no  other  comment. 

Still  she  felt,  closer  and  closer,  the  warm  young  body 
of  the  girl  who  stood  by  her  as  the  two  women  faced 
the  man  in  the  ancient  and  undying  battle  of  sex. 

"Well,  I  dropped  that  case,"  resumed  Judge  Hender 
son,  "name  or  claim  the  reason  as  you  like.  But  this 
case  is  different " 

"Why?"  asked  Anne  Oglesby.  "What's  the  differ 
ence  between  the  two  cases  ?  You  say  you  didn't  know, 
then.  Now  you  know." 

"But  I've  my  reputation  to  keep  clean,  Anne!  The 
higher  you  climb,  the  riskier  the  ladder.  I  could  drop 
that  little  case  yesterday,  but  let  me  drop  this  case,  with 
all  the  whole  town  back  of  it — and  all  my  whole  political 
party  back  of  it,  too — that's  another  matter!" 

"Is  it,  indeed!" 

"Yes !"  he  rasped.  "I  put  Judge  Reeves  on  the  bench 
here.  It's  a  big  case.  If  I  withdrew  a  second  time — if 
things  got  stirred  up  and  people  began  to  talk — why,  that 
would  be  enough  to  put  Old  Hod  Brooks  on  the  scent. 
He'd  well  enough  take  care  of  all  the  rest!  It  would 

1 88 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD1" 

be  the  end  of  my  career — in  twenty  minutes.  There'd 
be  nothing  left  of  my  chances — there'd  be  nothing  left 
of  my  reputation — the  work  of  twenty  years  would  be 
undone.  I'd  be  ruined!" 

"The  work  of  twenty  years !"  whispered  Aurora  Lane 
to  herself.  "Twenty  years!  And — ruin!"  Her  voice 
rose  again.  "What  about  us  others?  You're  talking 
about  yourself,  your  reputation,  you-r  success — how  about 
Don?  His  life's  at  stake.  So  is  mine — I'd  not  survive 
it  if  they  killed  my  boy." 

"What's  he  to  you,  anyhow?"  broke  out  Judge  Hen 
derson — "this  man  Brooks?  Are  you  in  any  conspiracy 
of  his  ?  What's  under  this  ?  What's  lie  to  you  ?  Was 
he  ever — has  he  ever " 

"Stop!"  said  Aurora  Lane,  her  voice  sharp,  her  face 
cameo-cold.  "Not  another  word !"  And  even  the  sullen 
and  distracted  soul  of  the  man  before  her  acknowledged 
the  imperative  command.  "You  traded  him  out  of  his 
place.  You're  trying  to  trade  now  in  your  own  son's 
life!  Is  that — can  that  really  be  true  of  any  man?" 

"Don't  bait  me  too  far !"  he  rejoined  savagely.  "Don't 
you  go  on  now  and  drive  me  into  fighting  these 
charges." 

"I  don't  think  you  would,  Uncle,"  said  the  calm  voice 
of  Anne  Oglesby.  "I  don't  think  you  would. 

"So  this,"  she  added  softly,  "is  what  my  guardian 
was  !  In  loco  parentls!" 

189 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


The  man  before  her  writhed  in  his  own  bitter  suf 
fering,  flinging  out  his  hands  imploringly  under  the  lash 
of  her  words. 

"Anne!  Anne!" — Aurora  turned  to  the  girl  at  her 
side — "I  wish  all  this  might  have  been  spared  you. 
You're  so  young !  But  it  all  had  to  come  out  some  time, 
I  suppose,  and  I'd  rather  have  you  learn  it  from  me 
than  from  Don.  You've  not  seen  him — he  has  not  told 
you?" 

"No.  We  only  had  a  moment— nbt  alone — just  a 
little  while  ago.  They  took  him  away — I  didn't  know 
why,  till  just  now.  We've  just  heard  what  the  cor 
oner's  jury  said.  But  I'll  not  leave  him  till  he  tells  me, 
to,  and  only  then  if  he  says  he  doesn't  love  me." 

"He  could  never  say  that!"  said  Aurora  Lane.  "But 
I  told  him  he  must  leave  you." 

"Did  he  say  he  would?" 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course!  But  when  I  told  him  that, 
I  didn't  know  you ;  and  I  did  not  think  Don  ever  would 
know  who  his  father  was.  He  doesn't  know  even 
now." 

Judge  Henderson  turned  suddenly,  catching  at  a 
thought  which  came  to  him  from  Aurora's  words. 

"Why  should  anyone  ever  know !"  he  began.  "If  this 
whole  matter  could  be  quieted  down — if  this  case  could 
be  dismissed 

"Would  you  promise  me,"  he  turned  toward  Aurora — 

190 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

"if  I  could  manage  in  some  way  to  get  all  this  hushed 
down — if  I  could  save  the  boy's  life — would  you  prom 
ise  me,  both  of  you,  never  to  tell  a  soul  in  the  world — 
never  to  let  anyone  get  a  breath  of  this?  You  are  the 
only  two  that  really  know  it  at  all — you  said,  Aurora, 
that  even  the  boy  doesn't  know  it  all.  Why  should  he, 
ever?  It's  been  hid  this  long,  why  not  longer?" 

"Anne  and  I,  and  yourself,  are  the  only  human  beings 
in  the  world  who  know  it  all,"  said  Aurora  Lane. 

"Can  you  keep  such  a  secret?"  Judge  Henderson 
turned  more  doubtfully  to  Anne  Oglesby,  whose  cold, 
quiet  scorn  had  cut  him  even  more  deeply  than  the 
bitterer  words  of  the  older  woman. 

"I'd  do  anything  for  Don — anything  I  thought  he'd 
be  willing  to  have  me  do.  But  I  don't  see  how  such 
a  thing  as  this  could  be  kept  down.  How  can  the  law 
be  set  aside?" 

"Listen  here/'  he  said,  facing  her,  a  little  color  of 
hope  at  last  in  his  face.  "You  don't  in  the  least  know 
what  you've  been  starting  here,  and  you  don't  know 
anything  about  the  remedy  for  it.  The  law?  It's  close 
to  politics,  sometimes !  If  I  fall — can't  you  see — I  drag 
down  plenty  of  others — I  drag  down  my  own  town — I 
drag  down  my  whole  judiciary — I've  been  on  the  bench 
here  myself.  Oh,  you  two  don't  know  all  about  how 
things  are  done  in  politics.  I'd  drag  down  all  the  ma 
chinery  of  my  own  party  in  this  state — the  thing  would 

191 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


go  even  wider  than  that — I'd  be  compromising  the  na 
tional  administration  itself.  I  tell  you,  it's  ruin,  ruin, 
if  this  thing  gets  out.  This  is  the  very  crisis  of  all 
my  life — my  whole  fate,  my  whole  past  and  future, 
are  in  your  hands  now,  and  much  more  beside — in  the 
hands  of  you  two  women. 

"But  I've  got  to  fight  the  best  I  may,"  he  added, 
walking  excitedly  apart,  and  smiting  one  hand  into  the 
other.  "Look  here,  now,"  and  he  turned  to  them  with  a 
new  look  on  his  haggard  face.  "Your  fate's  in  my 
hands,  too!  Go  beyond  reason  with  me — threaten  and 
goad  me  too  far — and  I'll  see  what  can  be  done  to  ruin 
you  two,  if  you  succeed  in  ruining  me!" 

"I've  not  asked  that,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  "I  don't 
care  about  that.  What's  revenge  to  me?  And  what's 
ruin  ?  I've  asked  nothing  of  you — nothing,  but  my  boy's 
life,  and  never  that  till  now.  You  gave  it  to  me  once, 
unasked.  I'm  asking  it  again,  now — his  life — my  boy's. 
I  bore  him  in  grief  and  sorrow.  It's  your  time  of  travail 
now.  That's  all." 

Judge  Henderson  almost  wept  in  his  own  self-pity. 

"Think  how  horribly,  how  grotesquely  unjust  all  this 
is,"  his  voice  trembled — "raking  up  all  the  deeds  of  a 
man's  youth.  The  past  ought  to  be  forgotten.  A  man's 
past " 

"Or  a  woman's?"  said  Aurora. 

"Well,  yes,  or  a  woman's.  But  it's  men  like  me  who 

192 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

have  to  build  up  things,  do  things,  administer  things, 
wisely  and  justly.  I've  been  a  judge  on  the  bench  here, 
before  the  world,  I  say.  And  here  you  two  women — 
why,  it's  ghastly,  it's  terrible,  its  criminal.  Your  drag 
ging  me  down — it — it's  a  hellish  thing  to  do." 

"What?  What's  that?"  The  voice  of  Aurora  Lane 
rose  again.  "If  there's  any  hell,  it's  for  a  false  judge. 
You  once  sat  on  the  bench,  yonder — yes.  Oh,  Judas — 
worse — you  are  ten  times  worse  than  Judas ! — Drag  you 
down — drag  all  the  town,  all  the  state,  all  the  society 
down  ?  Why,  yes,  I  would  if  I  could !  I  will,  I  will !" 

But,  sobbing  as  she  was,  and  desperate,  she  felt  the 
light  hand  of  Anne  Oglesby  now  swiftly  patting  her 
shoulder  for  silence.  The  girl  faced  her  guardian  with 
the  same  light  smifeTon  her  lips,  cool  and  contemptuous. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Uncle,"  she  said.  "A  moment  ago  you 
spoke  of  our  fate  being  in  your  hands,  too — of  one  ruin 
offset  against  another.  Come  now,  you're  a  trader — 
you  have  been  all  your  life,  Uncle — it  seems  you're  al 
ways  willing  to  trade  in  the  practice  of  the  law.  That's 
how  you've  got  up  where  you  are." 

Her  smile,  her  words,  cut  him  beyond  measure,  but 
he  clung  to  his  idea. 

"Very  well,  then.  Now,  suppose  we  trade!"  He 
spoke  sneeringly,  but  inwardly  he  was  trembling,  for 
he  knew  not  what  moment  Aurora  Lane  might  publicly 
make  good  her  threat. 

193 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"What  can  he  mean?"  Aurora  turned  to  Anne.  But 
Anne,  shrewder  at  the  time,  broke  in :  "Leave  him  alone. 
Let  him  go  on." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Judge  Henderson,  and  actually  half 
began  to  clear  his  throat,  so  sweet  did  his  new  thought 
appear  to  him,  "as  I  was  saying — there's  no  actual  in 
dictment  yet — there's  been  no  trial — the  coroner  has  only 
held  him  over.  Say  I'd  take  on  this  prosecution,  os 
tensibly — ostensibly — conditionally — ostensibly — to  keep 
down  any  suspicion;  and  then,  later  on,  after  several 
continuances  and  delays,  you  know,  and  the  disappear 
ance  of  all  the  witnesses  for  the  state — hum! — yes,  I'll 
say  it  might  be  done.  I'm  not  sure  it  couldn't  be  done 
more  or  less  easily,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it — I  know 
Reeves,  and  I  know  how  much  he'd  like  to  be  governor 
of  this  state — they  have  to  come  downstate  every  once 
in  a  while  for  available  timber. 

"So,  my  dear  girl,"  he  turned  to  Anne  in  virtuous 
triumph,  "after  all,  since  this  would  do  two  things — save 
the  boy's  life  and  save  my  reputation,  it  might  not  be 
discreditable  to  be  what  you  call  a  'trader' !"  There 
really  was  exultation  in  his  smile. 

"What  do  you  want  for  it?"  asked  Anne  Oglesby 
coldly.  "Where  would  it  leave  Don?  In  jail  indefi 
nitely  ?" 

"I  could  not  state  it  more  precisely !  He  looks  like  me! 
Oh,  I'll  admit  that — my  feeling  was  right,  my  conscience 

194 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

was  right!  He  is  my  son.  But  because  he  is  and  be- 
cause  he  looks  like  me,  he's  got  to  stay  in  jail  where  he'll 
not  be  seen, — a  year  or  two,  perhaps.  There  can't  be 
any  bail." 

The  two  white- faced  women  looked  each  into  the 
other's  face,  sad-eyed.  Anne's  breath  came  tremblingly. 
"It's  the  best  we  can  do !"  said  she  at  last ;  and  Aurora, 
seeing  how  it  was,  nodded  mutely. 

"What  do  you  want  for  it,  Uncle?"  demanded  Anne 
contemptuously  again. 

"I  want — silence!"  said  he  harshly,  at  last  beginning 
to  assert  himself.  "Silence!  And  I've  got  to  be  sure 
about  it." 

Suddenly  he  pulled  open  a  drawer  in  the  table  before 
him.  The  women  started,  fearing  a  weapon ;  but  it  was 
only  a  book  he  drew  out — an  old,  dusty  book,  the  edges 
of  its  leaves  once  gilded — a  copy  of  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
very  old  and  dusty. 

Judge  Henderson  by  accident  now  saw  the  fly  leaf, 
for  the  first  time  in  years.  It  was  the  little  Bible  his 
own  father  had  given  him,  half  a  lifetime  ago,  when  he 
was  first  starting  out  into  the  practice  of  the  law.  On 
the  yellowed  leaf  in  paled  ink  could  still  be  seen  the 
inscription  his  father  had  written  there  in  Latin  for 
his  son: 

"Filio  meo;  Crede  Deo. — To  my  son;  Believe  in  God!" 

"Will  you  swear  on  the  Bible  ?"  demanded  Judge  Hen- 

195 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


derson,  "both  of  you,  that  you'll  never  tell  nor  hint  a 
word  of  this  to  any  human  being  in  the  world — not 
even  to  him — the  boy?" 

The  hand  which  held  the  dusty  little  volume  was  trem 
bling,  but  Judge  Henderson  was  not  thinking  of  his 
own  father,  nor  of  the  inscription  in  the  little  book. 

"Yes !"  said  Aurora  Lane  at  once.  But  Anne  Oglesby 
raised  a  hand  for  pause. 

"I'll  not  swear  to  keep  back  anything  from  him,  my 
husband.  I'm  not  sure  I  could." 

"Your  husband " 

"I'm  going  to  marry  him,  unless  he  sends  me  away." 

"It  can't  be  soon — it  may  be  very  long — it  will  be 

years "  Judge  Henderson  was  getting  back  a  little 

color  now,  a  little  self-assertiveness,  a  little  more  readi 
ness  to  argue. 

"I  can  wait,"  said  Anne.  "But  I  can't  buy  him  cheap 
— Don  wouldn't  let  me.  I  know  who  his  father  is,  and 
he  ought  to  know  it,  too.  That's  his  right." 

"Anne,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  "I  denied  him  that  right. 
You  got  my  secret  by  accident.  Can't  you  keep  it,  too? 
It's  a  heavy  weight  that  Judge  Henderson  has  laid  on 
more  than  one  woman — a  load  to  be  borne  by  three 
women,  myself,  Miss  Julia,  and  you.  But  this  is  to 
save  Don's  life." 

"You'll  swear  secrecy  on  the  Book?"  broke  in  Judge 
Henderson. 

196 


"AS  YOU  BELIEVE  IN  GOD!" 

"Yes !"  said  Anne  Oglesby  at  length.  "If  you'll  swear 
to  perjure  yourself  against  your  oath  of  office  as  judge 
and  as  attorney — as  you've  said  you  would — I'll  swear. 
Is  that  the  trade?" 

"It's  the  only  hope  he  has,  the  only  hope  that  you 
have,  and  the  only  hope  that  I  have.  Absolute  silence ! 
Absolute  secrecy!  I'm  going  to  save  him — but  I'm  go 
ing  to  save  my  own  self,  too."  A  slight  color  was  in 
Henderson's  gray  face. 

"Oh,  you  trader!"  said  Anne  Oglesby,  all  her  scorn 
for  him  now  patent,  fully  voiced.  "You  sepulcher  of  a 
man !  You  failure !  Oh,  yes,  yes,  I'll  swear !  And  I'll 
keep  my  oaths  and  my  promises  all  my  life,  so  help  me 
God !  Lift  up  the  Book  !  You,  too,  Aurora." 

"I  swore  it  twenty  years  ago,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  "I 
will  again.  You  Judas !  You  coward !  Lift  up  the 
Book!  Lift  it  up,  so  that  I  may  see!  Is  that  the  book 
they  call  the  Bible — that  tells  of  love  and  mercy,  and 
truth,  and  justice,  and  forgiveness  of  sins?  Lift  it  up, 
so  that  I  may  see!" 

They  faced  him,  their  right  hands  raised,  and  he  held 
up  the  Book,  his  thumb  under  the  cover,  exposing  the 
inscription  which  he  had  not  seen  for  years  and  did 
not  now  see. 

"As  you  believe  in  God!"  began  Judge  William 
Henderson. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
AURORA  AND  ANNE 

WHEN  Judge  Henderson  passed  down  the  office 
stair,  and  out  across  the  street  toward  the 
narrow  little  brick  walk  of  the  courthouse — 
which  even  on  that  day  of  the  week  now  held  a  certain 
crowd — so  disturbed,  so  preoccupied,  was  he  that  he 
gave  no  greeting  to  one  or  two  belated  loiterers  about 
the  store  fronts. 

"I  reckon  that  young  feller'll  get  his  dose  now,"  said 
old  Aaron  Craybill,  demi-chorus  to  this  tragedy,  follow 
ing  with  his  bleared  eyes  the  tall  and  well-groomed 
figure,  frock-coated,  top-hatted,  which  now  was  passing 
toward  the  temple  of  justice.  "I  wouldn't  like  to  have 
no  man  like  the  Jedge  after  me  if  I'd  done  what  that 
boy  done.  He's  a-going  to  get  hung,  that's  what's  going 
to  happen  to  him.  Everybody  knows  Slattery  ain't  big 
enough  for  this  case.  With  a  'Nited  States  Senator 
a-prosecutin'  it,  though,  and  ten  reporters  from  the  cities 
— well,  I  guess  Spring  Valley'll  be  heard  from  some !" 

"I  wonder  when  the  funer'l's  goin'  to  be,"  said  his 
neighbor,  Silas  Kneebone.  "Of  course  Rawlins  is  go- 
in'  to  preach  the  sermon.  He's  good  on  funer'ls.  Seems 

IQ.8 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


like  he's  e'en-a'most  as  comfortin'  at  a  funer'l  as  ary 
minister  you  could  get  in  this  town — and  there's  quite 
some  ministers  here,  too." 

They  hurried  on  away  now  presently  even  as  Judge 
Henderson  disappeared  in  the  courthouse  door.  A  strain 
of  music  had  come  to  their  ears,  the  sound  of  reeds 
and  brasses. 

"Thar's  the  band  now!"  exclaimed  Aaron  Craybill. 
"Knight  Templar,  too !  They're  goin'  over  to  the  hall 
to  practice  for  the  funer'l.  Come  on  ahead!  Hurry, 
Silas !" 

Down  the  street,  audible  also  through  the  open  win 
dows  of  Judge  Henderson's  office,  came  the  music. 
Jerome  Westbrook  had  hastened  from  his  duties  on  the 
coroner's  jury  only  to  assume  his  labors  as  leader  of  the 
Spring  Valley  Silver  Cornet  Band;  and  as  it  was  the 
duty  of  that  band  to  head  the  procession  of  the  Knights 
Templar  in  the  funeral  march  of  Joel  Tarbush,  himself 
a  brother  of  the  order,  it  seemed  that  a  certain  rehearsal 
in  the  infrequent  effort  of  playing  under  march  was 
needful  on  this  Sabbath  day. 

Slow-paced,  with  swords  reversed  and  even  step,  with 
eyes  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  follow 
ing  the  music  of  the  wailing  horns,  the  muffled  tapping 
of  the  drums,  it  came  now  into  the  civic  center  of  the 
town,  this  solemn  procession.  At  its  head  walked  Saun- 
ders,  master  in  the  order,  his  opportunity  now  at  hand; 

199 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


and  behind  him,  in  full  regalia,  came  many  others,  all 
the  leading  citizens  of  this  community,  the  pillars  of  the 
church,  the  props  of  the  business  structure  of  this  vil 
lage,  the  leaders  and  formers  of  its  customs  and  its 
social  order;  all  these  anxious  that  the  appearance  of 
the  secret  order  in  public  should  be  in  all  ways  above 
reproach,  even  at  cost  of  this  quasi-public  rehearsal. 
Joel  Tarbush  dead  was  receiving  more  tribute  than  ever 
had  Joel  Tarbush  living. 

In  accordance  with  ritual  or  custom,  after  the  actual 
march  to  the  tomb,  the  musicians  must  render  that  selec 
tion  which  has  spoken  for  so  many  hearts  bowed  down 
in  weight  of  woe;  but  Jerome  Westbrook  knew  that  his 
men  needed  practice  on  Pleyel's  Hymn;  so  they  gave  it 
now  tentatively,  in  advance,  as  they  passed  through  the 
public  square  on  the  way  to  the  hall.  To  the  strained 
senses  of  Aurora  Lane,  still  sitting  with  Anne  in  the 
office  where  they  had  lingered,  the  wailing  of  the  music 
seemed  a  thing  unbearable.  She  caught  her  hands  to  her 
ears. 

"Oh,  God !"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  God !  If  only  they 
would  not." 

The  white,  sad-faced  young  woman  at  her  side  took 
her  trembling  hand  in  her  own.  "It  will  pass,"  said  she. 
"Everything  passes.  You  have  been  brave  all  these  years. 
I  ought  to  be  brave  too !  even  now — after  what  youVe 
told  me." 

200 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


"And  I  never  knew  you,"  said  Aurora  Lane  after  a 
time.  "Not  many  women  have  ever  said  much  to 
me/' 

"Nor  did  I  know  you,"  rejoined  Anne  Oglesby.  "You 
were  a  stranger  to  me  when  I  saw  you  now,  right  here — 
Don's  mother!  We  were  so  excited,  Don  and  I,  that  I 
never  identified  you  two,  although — yes — I  knew — some 
thing  about — about What  shall  I  call  you — you  see, 

maybe  I'll  be  your  daughter  yet." 

"Some  call  me — Mrs.  Lane.  Some — Miss  Lane.  You 
can't  call  me  'mother.' "  For  most  part  I  am  the  village 
milliner,  my  dear — nothing  more  than  that.  I'm  nobody. 
But  generally,  I'm  'Aurora  Lane.'  .  .  .  Now  you  know 
it  all.  I'm  so  sorry  for  you,  my  dear  girl.  You're  fine — 
you're  splendid.  You're  a  good  girl;  and  you're  so  very 
beautiful.  If  only  you  belonged  with — with  him — with 
me.  It's  too  bad  for  you." 

Anne  Oglesby,  the  more  composed  of  the  two,  im 
pulsively  stroked  back  the  thick  ruff  of  auburn  hair  from 
Aurora's  face.  "You  mustn't  bother  about  me,"  she 
said. 

"But  I  must  bother  about  you !  You  must  give  him  up. 
My  dear,  my  dear,  it  can't  be !  I'm  just  learning  now 
how  hard  that  would  be  for  him  because  it's  so  hard  for 
me." 

"He  kissed  me,"  said  Anne  Oglesby  simply.  "After 
that  it  was  too  late." 

201 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Why,  what  do  you  mean,  my  dear?" 

"He  didn't  have  to  do  anything  more  after  that,"  said 
Anne  Oglesby  slowly.  "He  had  not  had  time  to  say  any 
thing  before  that." 

"He  should  not  have  kissed  you,"  said  Aurora  Lane. 
"But  that  was  his  farewell  to  you." 

"It  was  not  farewell!"  said  Anne  Oglesby.  "It  was 
our  beginning!  I  will  not  give  him  up.  If  he  had  not 
kissed  me — just  when  he  did — just  as  he  did — I  would 
not  have  known  !  I'm  glad !" 

Aurora  Lane  looked  at  her  searchingly,  slowly. 

"Poor  girl!"  said  she.  "Dear  girl!  He  could  not 
help  loving  you — I  cannot  help  it  myself.  You  are  the 
only  woman  in  the  world,  I  think,  for  him." 

"I  am  not  good  enough,"  said  Anne  Oglesby  stoutly. 
But  then  suddenly  she  cast  both  her  strong  young  arms 
about  the  neck  of  Aurora  Lane  and  dropped  her  head 
upon  Aurora's  shoulder. 

"Oh,  yes  I  am!"  she  said;  "oh,  yes  I  am!  I  know  I 
must  have  been  meant  for  him,  or  else — else ~" 

But  she  did  not  as  yet  reveal  the  secret  of  the  Sphinx. 
They  both  fell  silent. 

"Ah,  sacrifice!"  said  Aurora,  wearily,  after  a  time. 
"Sacrifice  always  for  the  woman.  We  are  all  so  bent  on 
that." 

"There's  much  more  than  that,"  said  Anne  Oglesby, 
sagely.  "Besides,  sacrifice  itself  is  not  an  odious  thing. 

202 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


You  sacrificed  much  of  your  life,  your  happiness,  your 
freedom.  Are  you  sorry  for  that  now,  or  proud  ?" 

"Dear  girl!"  murmured  Aurora  Lane,  patting  her  on 
the  shoulder.  "Ah,  you  sweet  girl!  If  you  could  only 
just  remain  always  this  young  and  wise — and  ignorant !" 

But  Anne  Oglesby  seemed  not  to  hear  her.  She  was 
looking  out  of  the  window  musingly  now,  her  yellow- 
gloved  hands  supported  on  her  tight-rolled  umbrella,  her 
hat  making  a  half-shadow  for  her  dark  hair  and  her 
clear,  definite  features. 

Now  the  red  sun  ball,  having  well  completed  its  circuit 
over  the  parched  and  breathless  town,  was  sinking  to  yet 
another  lurid  sunset.  There  lay  over  all  a  blanket  of 
that  humid  heat  which  so  often  arrests  activity  in  com 
munities  such  as  this,  situated  in  the  interior,  where  few 
cooling  breezes  come.  The  dry,  dust-covered  leaves  of 
the  maples  hung  unmoved.  Here  and  there,  still  hitched 
to  the  iron  piping  which  served  as  a  rail  on  all  sides  of 
the  courthouse  fence,  stood  the  teams  of  farmers  still 
tarrying,  unwilling  to  face  the  hot  ride  home  from  town, 
even  though  the  duty  of  church  attendance  was  long 
since  past.  A  murder  and  a  funeral — a  Knights  Tem 
plar  funeral — Spring  Valley  had  never  known  the  like ! 
And  there  was  going  to  be  a  trial — a  murder  trial.  Court 
would  sit  tomorrow.  What  village  could  ask  more  than 
was  the  portion  of  Spring  Valley  in  these  few  hurrying 
days?  And  it  was  her  boy,  'Rory  Lane's;  and  she'd 

203 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


fooled  everybody — but  now !  Spring  Valley  licked 

its  chops  as  it  said  "But  now " 

The  two  women  in  Judge  Henderson's  office  sat  still 
in  the  sultry  heat,  looking  out  of  the  window  over  the 
sultry,  sordid,  solemn  little  town;  how  long  they  did  not 
know ;  until  now  there  came  again  across  the  heat-hazy 
spaces  of  the  maples,  over  the  hot  tops  of  the  two-storied 
brick  buildings,  the  sound  of  the  wailing  music — the  same 
music  which  may  come  from  the  noblest  organs  of  the 
world,  the  same  music  which  may  have  pealed  on  fields 
of  battle  after  heroes  have  fallen,  speaking,  as  music 
may,  of  a  soul  passed,  of  a  life  ended,  so  soon  to  be  for 
got.  For  a  time  let  the  wailing  of  the  horns,  the  tapping 
even  of  these  unskilled  drums,  record  the  duty  of  this 
man's  fellows  to  give  him  at  least  a  moment's  full  re 
membrance. 

In  this  hot  lifeless  air  of  the  somber  Sabbath  after 
noon  the  burden  of  sorrow,  the  weight  of  solemnity, 
seemed  yet  heavier  and  more  oppressive.  If  a  soldier 
dies  the  music  plays  some  lilting  air  which  speaks  forget- 
fulness  on  the  march  home;  but  now,  for  the  second 
time  came  this  reiterated  mournful  wailing  for  a  passing 
soul.  The  band  had  learned  its  lesson  by  now.  The 
dirge  for  the  dead  arose  in  a  volume  well  regulated  and 
sustained  as  the  men  marched  from  the  hall  at  last  for 
the  final  trial  on  the  street. 

To  the  tapping  rhythm  of  the  anthem  of  the  dead, 
204 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


sometimes  such  a  community  as  this  does  take  thought — 
these  uniforms  are  justified,  these  white  plumes,  these 
reversed  swords  are  justified;  for  an  humble  man  who 
has  passed  is  dignified  before  his  fellow  men ;  and  he  has 
had  his  tribute.  Sometimes  at  least  men  thus  stand 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  heads  bared,  and  forget  envy, 
backbiting,  little  jealousies,  forget  cynicism  and  ridicule. 
The  diapason  of  the  drums  surely  had  its  hearing.  It 
sank  deep  to  the  soul  of  Aurora  Lane,  striking  some 
chord  long  left  unresponsive. 

"Anne!"  said  she,  her  hand  lying  in  that  of  the  wet- 
eyed  girl  at  her  side,  "it's  over — for  him." 

The  girl  nodded.  But  after  all,  Anne  was  young.  She 
raised  her  head  in  the  arrogance  of  youth,  even  as  there 
passed  more  and  more  remotely  the  mournful  cadence 
of  the  drums. 

"But  he  was  old !"  she  said,  defensively.  All  of  youth 
and  hope  was  in  her  protest. 

Aurora  turned  upon  her  her  own  large  eyes,  dark- 
ringed  today.  Her  mouth,  long  drawn  down  in  resolu 
tion,  was  wondrous  sweet  now  as  it  trembled  a  little  in 
its  once  ripe  red  fulness.  It  became  the  mouth  of  a 
young  woman — not  made  for  sorrow.  "You  still  can 
hope,  then?"  she  smiled.  And  Anne  nodded,  bravely. 
So,  seeing  replica  of  her  own  soul,  Aurora  Lane  could 
do  no  more  nor  less  than  to  fold  her  in  her  own  arms,  the 
two  understanding  perfectly  a  thousand  unsaid  things. 

205 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"But  come!"  said  Anne  Oglesby  at  last.  "We  must 
make  plans.  There's  a  lot  to  be  done  yet,  and  we  must 
start." 

"I  have  no  money,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  "I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

"Money  isn't  everything,"  said  Anne  Oglesby,  with  the 
assurance  of  those  who  have  all  the  money  that  they  need. 
"I  suppose  I  have  plenty  of  money  if  my  guardian  will 
let  me  have  it." 

"Even  if  your  guardian  allowed  it,"  said  Aurora  Lane 
proudly,  "Don  would  not.  He  would  not  let  you  help 
him,  nor  would  I,  though  we  are  paupers — worse  than 
that  Did  you  know  that,  Anne  ?" 

"I  am  finding  out  these  things  one  by  one,"  was  the 
girl's  reply.  "But  they  have  come  after  my  decision." 
She  spoke  with  her  own  quaint  primness  and  certainty 
of  her  mind. 

"There's  just  one  man  could  help  us,"  said  Aurora 
Lane,  hesitating,  and  coloring  a  trifle.  "I  mean  Mr. 
Brooks,  Horace  Brooks.  He's  a  good  lawyer.  Some 
say  he  is  the  equal  of  Judge  Henderson — I  don't  know. 
You  heard  what  Judge  Henderson  said  of  him.  It's  fear 
of  Horace  Brooks,  as  much  as  his  own  conscience,  that's 
influencing  Judge  Henderson." 

"And  why  couldn't  we  go  to  Horace  Brooks  then?" 
demanded  Anne  Oglesby.  "What  is  the  objection — why 
can't  you  go  to  him  ?" 

206 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


"I'd  rather  not  tell  you,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  and  in 
spite  of  herself  felt  the  color  rise  yet  more  to  her  face. 

Anne  Oglesby  sat  looking  at  her  for  some  time  in 
silence.  'There  are  complications  sometimes,  are  there 
not?"  said  she.  So  silence  fell  between  them. 

The  drums  had  passed  by  now.  The  sun  had  almost 
sunk  to  the  edge  of  the  last  row  of  dust-crowned  maples. 
The  farmers  here  and  there  below  were  unhitching  the 
sunburned  horses  at  the  courthouse  rail. 

"I  see,"  said  Anne  at  length.  "You  love  him — or  did 
— Don's  father.  Or  do  you  still  pity  him !" 

"Who  are  you?"  said  Aurora  Lane,  looking  at  her 
steadfastly.  "You,  so  young !  You  talk  of  pity.  Where 
have  you  learned  so  much — so  soon?  When  you  grow 
older,  perhaps  you  may  find  it  hard  not  to  forgive. 
Everything's  so  little  after  all,  and  it's  all  so  soon 
over." 

Unsmilingly  Anne  Oglesby  held  her  peace.  "Why 
don't  you  want  to  ask  Mr.  Brooks  to  act  as  our  attor 
ney?"  she  asked.  "And  who  is  he — I  don't  know  him, 
you  see." 

Aurora  did  not  answer  the  first  part  of  her  question. 
"I'll  tell  you  where  Mr.  Brooks'  office  is,"  said  she — "you 
see  that  little  stair  just  across  the  courthouse  yard? 
Sometimes  he  spends  Sunday  afternoon  in  his  office. 
It's — well — it's  hard  for  me  to  go  over  there  and  ask 
him." 

207 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Has  he — has  he — ever  been  much  to  you?"  asked 
Anne  Oglesby,  directly. 

"In  a  way,  yes,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  quite  truthfully, 
but  flushing  red.  "Outside  of  my  own  son,  he  is  the  only 
man  that's  ever  raised  voice  or  hand  in  my  defense  here 
in  this  town.  Beyond  that — don't  ask  me." 

Anne  Oglesby  did  not  ask  her  beyond  that.  But  when 
she  spoke,  there  was  decision  in  her  tones. 

"It  is  no  doubt  your  duty  to  go  to  Mr.  Brooks  at  once. 
Will  he  too  refuse  us?" 

Aurora  Lane's  face  remained  flushed  in  spite  of  her 
self. 

"I  don't  think  he  will  refuse,"  said  she.  "But  only 
Don's  danger  would  ever  induce  me  to  ask  him  for  any 
help.  I'll  ask  him — for  Don  and  you." 

Twilight  fell,  and  they  still  sat  silent.  There  came  at 
last  the  footfalls  on  the  office  stairs,  and  the  two  arose 
in  the  dim  light  to  face  the  door. 

Judge  Henderson  entered  slowly,  hesitatingly.  He  half 
started  as,  looking  within  the  unlightened  room,  he  saw 
standing  silhouetted  against  the  window  front  the  tall, 
trimly-clad  figure  of  his  ward,  and  at  her  side,  equally 
tall,  the  dim,  vague  outline  of  Aurora,  clad  in  black. 
The  two  stood  hand  in  hand,  and  for  the  time  made  no 
speech. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  at  length. 

Anne  would  have  passed  out  with  her,  but  her  guardian 

208 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


raised  a  hand.  "I  must  ask  you  where  you  are  going?" 
said  he. 

"Not  with  me,"  said  Aurora,  quickly.  "No,  no,  you 
must  not."  And  so,  quickly  hurrying  down  the  stair,  she 
herself  turned  into  the  open  street. 

"Anne,"  said  Judge  Henderson,  "I  am  deeply  dis 
tressed.  This  all  is  terrible — it's  an  awful  thing.  Did 
you  hear  that  funeral  march?  God!  an  awful  thing, 
right  when  I  am  in  this  terrible  dilemma.  I've  just  been 
on  the  long  distance  'phone  trying  to  get  Slattery — I  can't 
find  either  him  or  Reeves ;  and  I've  got  to  act  before  court 
actually  opens." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  a  dilemma  ?"  she  asked  coldly. 
"Does  any  dilemma  last  long  with  you,  Uncle,  when  there 
is  any  question  of  your  own  self-interest?" 

His  face  flushed  under  the  cool  insolence  of  her  tone. 
"It's  a  fine  courtesy  you  have  learned  in  your  schooling !" 

"Have  you  heard  all  her  history  now  ?"  he  asked  after 
an  icy  pause. 

"Not  all  of  it,  no.  Enough  to  admire  her,  yes.  Enough 
to  understand  how  this  town  feels  toward  her,  yes.  Why 
don't  you  all  burn  her  as  a  witch  in  the  public  square?" 

"You  have  a  bitter  tongue,  Anne,"  said  he.  "You  are 
not  like  your  sainted  mother." 

"A  while  ago  you  said  I  was !  But  my  sainted  mother, 
whom  I  never  knew,  never  found  herself  in  a  situation 
such  as  this,"  rejoined  Anne  Oglesby.  "At  least,  while 

209 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


my  father  lived,  she  had  a  man  to  fend  for  her.  I  have 
none.  We  are  women  only  in  this  case." 

"So  it  was  your  plan  to  marry  a  nameless  man? 
You've  sworn  he  always  shall  be  nameless."  The  man's 
face  showed  a  curious  mixture  of  eagerness  and  anxiety. 
He  wished  to  argue,  to  expound,  but  dared  not  face  this 
young  girl  with  the  icy  smile. 

"Yes,  I've  sworn  silence.  It  is  a  great  and  grave 
responsibility,"  said  she.  "I'm  sadder  for  that,  that's 
true.  But  there  are  many  things  in  the  world  besides  just 
being  happy,  don't  you  think  ?  You  see,  I've  no  dilemma 
at  all!" 

Judge  Henderson  passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead. 
He  had  fought  hard  cases  at  the  bar,  but  never  had  he 
fought  a  case  like  this. 

"Anne,"  said  he  presently,  "I'm  very  weary.  I've  had 
a  hard  day.  I  want  you  to  go  on  up  to  the  house  now — 
the  servants  will  make  you  comfortable  until  I  come. 
Just  now  I  was  afraid  you  were  going  on  over  with 
Aurora  Lane  to  her  house." 

"Not  yet,  Uncle,"  said  she.  "Perhaps  at  some  later 
time,  if  you  cast  me  out." 

He  only  groaned  at  this  thrust. 

She  passed,  a  cool  picture  of  youth,  self-possessed  and 
calm.  He  heard  her  foot  tapping  fainter  as  it  descended 
the  stair,  listened  to  hear  if  she  might  come  back  again. 
But  Anne  went  on  down  the  street  steadily,  looking 

210 


AURORA  AND  ANNE 


straight  ahead  of  her.  Already,  it  seemed  to  her,  she 
had  grown  old.  To  those  who  saw  her  she  seemed  a 
beautiful  young  woman. 

"That's  Don  Lane's  girl,"  said  one  ancient  to  another, 
back  of  his  hand.  "Lives  over  at  Columbus.  He  kissed 
her  right  there  on  the  depot  platform,  this  very  morning. 
Huh!" 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  rejoined  the  other,  with  a  coarse 
laugh.  "But  he  ain't  apt  to  get  many  more  chances  now. 
I  wonder  how  he  fooled  her  about  himself — and  her  the 
judge's  ward,  or  something." 

"Nerve  ?"  said  his  friend.  "He's  got  nerve  enough  to 
a-done  anything.  But  I  guess  they  got  him  dead  to  rights 
this  time." 

"Yeh.  The  town's  got  him  dead  to  rights.  No  matter 

what  the  law "  he  stopped,  his  head  up,  as  though 

sniffing  at  something  in  the  air.  "Gawd!"  said  he. 
"Wasn't  that  music  a  awful  thing!  I  can  feel  it  in  my 
bones  right  now.  It  makes  me  feel " 

"It  makes  a  feller  feel  like  doing  something  more'n 
being  just  sad!  It  makes  a  feller  feel  like — well " 

"Like  startin'  something!" 

The  other  nodded,  grimly,  his  mouth  caved  in  at  the 
corners,  tight  shut  now. 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

ANNE  scarcely  had  left  the  office  when  Judge  Hen 
derson,  stepping  into  the  inner  room,  pulled  open 
a  certain  door  of  a  cabinet  beneath  the  wash- 
hand-stand.  He  drew  forth  a  half-filled  bottle  of  whisky, 
shook  it  once  meditatively,  and  poured  himself  an  ade 
quate  drink,  refreshing  himself  with  water  at  the  tap. 
He  stood  for  a  moment,  the  half-emptied  glass  in  his 
hand,  looking  at  his  features  in  the  little  glass  which 
hung  above  the  cabinet. 

Not  an  unpleasant  face  it  seemed  to  him ;  for  so  slowly 
had  the  lines  come  in  his  features,  so  slowly  the  gray 
in  his  hair,  that  almost  he  was  persuaded  they  were  not 
there  at  all.  Delayed  by  the  mirror  to  the  extent  of  hav 
ing  consumed  but  half  of  his  refreshing  draft,  yet  pur 
posing  further  imbibition,  Judge  Henderson  paused  at  the 
sound  of  some  person  ascending  the  outer  stair. 

It  was  a  very  halting  and  uncertain  step  that  came  this 
time,  one  which  seemed  to  double  on  each  lift  of  the 
stair,  with  an  accentuating  tap-tap,  as  of  a  stick  used  in 
aid.  But  after  a  time  he  sensed  its  pause  at  his  door. 
There  was  a  rap,  a  faint  little  rap,  although  the  door 

212 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

itself  was  ajar.  Judge  Henderson  discreetly  returned  to 
the  cabinet  his  half-finished  glass  of  whisky  and  water, 
and  stepped  into  the  other  room. 

It  was  Miss  Julia  Delafield  whom  he  met. 

She  was  standing,  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door, 
as  if  seeking  support,  or  rather  as  though  ready  for 
flight.  Her  eyes  were  especially  large  and  luminous  now, 
as  always  they  were  when  any  supreme  emotion  governed 
her.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed  in  that  fashion  which  she 
never  yet  had  learned  to  control.  Her  smooth  brown 
hair  was  held  tightly  back  under  her  cool  summer  hat, 
and  the  hands  resting  on  her  smooth-topped  cane  were 
well  gloved.  Not  ill-looking  she  was  as  she  stood, 
stooped  a  trifle,  bent  over  a  bit. 

She  was  half  a-tremble  now  with  the  excitement  that 
she  felt.  To  any  chance  observer,  even  at  this  hour  of 
this  Sabbath  day,  it  must  have  seemed  that  here  was  only 
a  client  come  with  purpose  of  consultation  with  an  at 
torney.  To  the  angels  above  who  looked  down  on  such 
matters  as  this,  it  must  have  seemed  a  pathetic  scene, 
this  in  which  Miss  Julia  figured  now.  To  any  human 
being  knowing  all  the  facts  it  must  have  been  apparent 
that  this  call  upon  Judge  Henderson  was  Miss  Julia 
Delafield's  great  adventure. 

It  was  her  great  adventure — the  greatest  ever  known 
in  all  her  life;  and  she  had  dared  it  now  only  because 
of  two  of  the  strongest  emotions  known  to  a  woman's 

213 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


soul.  These  are  two.  They  both  come  under  a  common 
name.  That  name  is  love. 

It  was  love  had  brought  Miss  Julia  hither.  Love  in 
the  first  place  for  Dieudonne  Lane — or  was  it,  really,  in 
the  first  place,  love  for  him?  For  we,  who  know  as  much 
as  Aurora  Lane  knew  of  Miss  Julia's  secret — who  once 
saw  her  gazing  adoringly  at  a  certain  framed  portrait 
when  she  fancied  herself  alone — would  have  known  that 
there  was  more  than  one  mansion  in  the  heart  of  the  little 
lame  librarian. 

Helpless,  resigned — but  yet  a  woman — Miss  Julia  loved 
in  the  first  place  as  every  woman  with  any  touch  of  nor 
mality  does  love  in  spite  of  all.  She  had  known  all  these 
years  that  her  love  was  hopeless,  that  it  was  wrong,  that 
it  was  a  sin — she  classed  it  as  her  sin.  And  her  sin 
being  her  own,  she  hugged  it  to  her  bosom  and  wept  over 
it  these  twenty  years — became  repentant  over  it — became 
defiant  for  it;  prayed  over  it  and  clung  to  it — in  short, 
comported  herself  as  any  woman  would.  And  now  Miss 
Julia,  being  what  she  was,  stood  flushed,  her  tiding  pulses 
rising  to  her  eyes,  staining  her  fair  skin  deep  to  her  very 
neck,  as  she  faced  her  great  adventure — as  she  stood 
looking  into  the  face  she  had  framed  on  her  wall,  framed 
on  her  desk,  framed  in  her  heart  as  well,  in  silver  and 
gold  and  all  the  brilliants  and  the  gems  of  a  woman's 
soul. 

But  she  was  here  by  reason  of  a  twofold  love.  Always 
214 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

in  her  heart,  since  she  could  remember,  there  had  been 
the  great  secondary  longing  for  something  small  to  love, 
to  hold  in  her  arms — the  desire  for  a  child  of  her  own — 
the  one  thing  which,  as  Miss  Julia  knew,  might  never  be 
for  her. 

Indeed,  this  great  craving  had  always  remained 
unformulated,  unidentified,  until  that  time,  years  and 
years  ago,  when  she  first  saw  the  baby  of  Aurora  Lane 
lifting  up  its  hands  to  her.  So  she  had  become  one-half 
a  mother,  at  the  least. 

He  was  half  her  boy,  at  least,  he  who  now  lay  in 
prison.  A  woman  is  a  coward  as  to  revealing  her  love 
for  her  chosen  mate — she  will  conceal  that,  deny  that,  to 
the  death.  But  for  the  child  her  love  is  different — then 
she  becomes  bold — she  will  defy  all  the  world — will  force 
herself  even  into  situations  otherwise  unthinkable.  Ex 
cept  for  her  love  for  Don  Lane,  the  fatherless,  Miss 
Julia  would  never  have  undertaken  to  find  a  father  for 
him. 

But  that  child  had  a  father!  Each  must  have.  Ah! 
how  must  the  angels  have  wept  over  that  piteous  spec 
tacle  of  Miss  Julia  in  her  own  room,  looking  smilingly  at 
the  face  she  saw  pictured  here  in  her  own  hand — the 
face  of  one  whom  she  held  to  be  a  great  man,  a  noble 
man,  a  man  good,  just,  wise,  one  with  love  and  kindness 
in  his  heart  as  well  as  brawn  and  brains  in  his  physical 
self.  Yes,  there  was  a  father.  .  .  .  And  he  was  perfect, 

215 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


heroic,  for  her ;  her  love  being  thus  much  blessed  by  that 
divine  blindness  love  works  within  us  all. 

Now,  the  face  which  Miss  Julia  saw  in  her  boudoir, 
the  face  which  she  saw  framed  upon  the  wall  of  her 
library  room,  was  the  same  which  she  saw  now  close  at 
hand!  She  started,  flushed,  trembled,  finding  difference 
between  a  picture  and  a  man. 

Judge  Henderson  was  urbane,  as  always  with  a  woman. 
He  led  her  to  a  seat,  taking  pains  to  turn  on  another  clip 
of  the  electric  light,  which  Miss  Julia  suddenly  wished 
he  had  not  done,  since  now  she  was  most  sensible  of  her 
uncontrollable  blushes. 

Yes,  it  was  a  great  adventure !  She  had  never  before 
been  alone  with  him — not  in  all  her  life.  She  had  never 
been  this  close  to  him  before.  It  was  somewhat  cruel 
now ;  but  the  angels  have  their  ways  of  being  cruel  with 
us  at  times. 

"Miss  Julia,"  he  began  with  an  extra  unctuousness  in 
his  tones,  "Miss  Julia,  my  dear  girl,  I  surely  am  delighted 
to  see  you  here.  You  have  never  before  been  here,  I  am 
persuaded — this  is  the  first  time  in  all  our  long  and  pleas 
ant  acquaintance.  If  ever  in  the  past  I  have  been  able 
to  be  of  service  to  you " 

In  any  conversation  Judge  Henderson  was  sure  to 
bring  the  talk  around  to  himself,  to  his  own  deeds,  his 
own  ambitions.  His  was  an  egotism  so  extreme  as  to  be 
almost  beyond  accountability — he  was  a  moron  not  in 

216 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

mentality  but  in  sense  of  proportion.  He  could  not  have 
put  two  square  blocks  together  if  one  of  these  blocks 
had  to  do  with  the  interest  of  another  but  himself. 
There  are  such  men,  and  at  times  they  go  far. 

Miss  Julia  flushed  again  prettily,  but  she  was  too  much 
the  lady  to  giggle  or  squirm  or  do  any  of  those  unlovable 
things  by  which  the  hopeless  female  makes  herself  more 
hopeless.  She  was  used  to  hearing  herself  addressed  as 
"Miss  Julia"  by  all  the  world;  but  it  seemed  none  the 
less  especially  sweet  to  hear  the  words  in  these  rich,  full, 
manly  tones.  (In  her  diary  she  wrote,  "He  addressed 
me  in  rich,  full,  manly  tones/') 

"Yes,  I  came  as  soon  as  my  duties  allowed  me  to  get 
away  today,  Judge.  It  was  a  busy  day  for  me,  although 
it  is  the  Sabbath.  I  was  classifying  some  of  the  books. 
Thanks  to  your  generosity,  we  have  just  received  a  good 
shipment. 

"But  you  see,  the  town  is  all  wrapped  up  in  all  these 
other  things  that  have  happened — that's  why  I  came, 
Judge  Henderson." 

"I  presume  you  have  reference  to  that  unfortunate 
young  man  who  now  lies  in  prison?  In  what  capacity 
then  can  I  serve  you,  Miss  Julia?"  His  tone  now  was 
icy  and  reserved. 

"I  came  to  you,  Judge  Henderson,  because  I  knew  I 
would  find  in  you  a  champion  for  justice.  Why,  all  the 
town  has  come  to  depend  on  you  for  almost  everything! 

217 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


I  suppose  that  is  why  I  came — it  seemed  the  natural  thing 
to  do." 

Judge  Henderson,  regretting  his  half-finished  glass, 
now  impossible,  coughed  behind  his  hand. 

"I  am  afraid,  Miss  Julia,"  said  he,  "that  you  don't 
quite  know  who  he  is,  that  boy." 

"Ah,  do  I  not !    Why,  he  is  my  boy,  my  own  boy !" 

"I  beg  pardon,  but  what  do  you  mean,  Miss  Julia  ?" 

"I  say  he's  my  boy!  What  I  say  about  that  is  priv 
ileged — it's  professional,  Judge  Henderson.  No  one  else 
has  heard  me  say  what  I  am  telling  you  now.  But  he 
is  my  boy — my  love  has  gone  into  him,  the  same  as  if  I 
were  his  mother." 

He  only  stared  as  she  rushed  on. 

"I  know  his  mother — we  have  been  friends  here  since 
we  were  girls,  real  friends.  I'm  the  only  friend  she's  got 
in  this  town — and  the  only  fair  and  kind  thing  this  town 
has  ever  done  has  been  to  allow  me  to  be  the  friend  of 
Aurora  Lane.  I  suppose  that's  because  I  am  only  the 
little  lame  librarian !  I  don't  count.  She  doesn't  count. 
But — well,  between  us  two — we've  had  a  boy !" 

He  stared,  pale,  as  she  went  on : 

"Between  us  two,  we've  brought  him  up.  We've  edu 
cated  him.  Between  us  two,  we  have  saved  our  money — 
it  wasn't  much — and  we've  managed  to  give  him  some 
thing  of  an  education,  something  of  a  life  more  than  he 
could  have  gotten  in  this  town.  We  have  put  him  through 

218 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

college — we  have  given  him  a  profession — we  were  going 
to  give  him  a  start. 

"I  say  'we/  and  I  mean  that.  But,  it  isn't  the  money 
of  mine  that  went  into  him — it's  my  love — it's  the  love 
I  felt  for  him!  Why,  Judge,  I've  seen  him  grow  up. 
I've  held  him  in  my  two  hands,  this  way,  when  he  was  so 
little  ...  oh,  very  little.  ...  So  you  see,  he's  my 
boy,  too! 

"And  so,"  she  added  inconsequently,  as  he  made  no 
answer,  "I  came  to  you."  (What  the  angels  understood 
in  Miss  Julia's  unspoken  words  then  they  did  not  make 
plain  to  the  ears  of  the  man  who  heard  them.) 

Judge  Henderson  sat  astounded,  looking  at  her  stead 
ily,  unable  to  grasp  all  the  emotion  which  evidently  she 
felt,  unable  wholly  to  understand  an  act  of  clean  un 
selfishness  on  the  part  of  any  human  being. 

"You  see,"  said  Miss  Julia  tremblingly,  after  a  time — 
"his  father — I  never  knew  his  father.  She'd  never  tell 
me — I  never  asked  but  once.  But  you  see,  I  only  fancied 
that  he  had  a  father.  I  fancied  I  was  his  mother.  I 

fancied "     But  now  Miss  Julia's  voice  failed  her, 

and  her  blushes  alone  spoke. 

"I  see,"  said  Judge  Henderson,  not  unkindly,  and 
breathing  more  freely,  "you  fancied  that  you  held  an 
undivided  interest  in  this  child,  this  young  man."  She 
did  not  see  his  face  very  plainly,  did  not  catch  his  hesi 
tation  as  he  engaged  on  this  touchy  theme. 

219 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Miss  Julia  nodded  rapidly,  swallowing  hard.  Her  face 
was  very  beautiful  indeed  now.  (The  angels  must  have 
smiled  with  tears  in  their  eyes  as  they  looked  down  upon 
her  now  and  saw  how  pathetically  beautiful  she  was!) 

"And  that  interest  is  still  undivided?" 

"Yes,  weVe  not  seen  each  other  very  much,  Aurora 
and  I,  today,  because  things  have  been  traveling  so  fast, 
but  we  are — we  are  partners  in  this  trouble,  as  in  every 
thing  else.  We've  got  to  have  a  lawyer,  of  course. 
There's  not  much  money  left  between  us — even  my  next 
month's  salary  is  pledged.  It  cost  more  than  we  thought 
to  get  him  through  the  graduation.  There  were  clothes, 
you  know — many  things."  And  now  she  flushed  again 
vividly.  She  was  thinking  of  Don's  little  clothes,  which 
once  long  ago  she  had  helped  to  sew;  and  the  angels 
knew  this,  gravely. 

"He's  a  splendid  young  man,  our  boy !"  she  broke  out 
again  at  length.  "Can't  you  see  that  ?  Good  in  his  classes 
— and  an  athlete — a  splendid  one.  He's  such  a  gentleman 
in  all  his  ways,  Judge  Henderson,  a  son  worthy  of  a 
father,  of  some  good  father,  if  only  he  had  one !  His 
father  died,  you  know,  when  Don  was  just  a  baby." 
She  was  not  looking  at  him  now,  not  daring,  as  she 
went  on. 

"But  you  see,  we  are  in  trouble  about  him.  That  may 
come  to  anyone.  Why,  even  you  yourself,  Judge  Hen 
derson,  successful  as  you  are — some  time  even  you  may 

220 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

know  such  a  thing  as  trouble.  It  is  the  common  human 
lot.  And  I  have  been  told  enough " 

"If  I  were  in  trouble,"  said  Judge  Henderson  gal 
lantly,  and  with  a  push  of  a  full  ounce  of  Monongahela 
back  of  his  words,  "I  would  go  to  just  some  such  woman 
as  you  for  help.  But  women  don't  seem  to  see  any  of 
the  intervening  obstacles  that  exist,  do  they,  Miss  Julia  ?" 

"If  we  did,  the  world  would  stop,"  said  Miss  Julia, 
simply.  And  spoke  a  great  truth. 

"None  the  less  there  are  obstacles,"  said  he,  after  a 
time.  "I  fear  there  are  insuperable  ones,  my  dear." 
("He  called  me  'My  dear!'"  wrote  Miss  Julia  in  her 
diary.) 

"Why,  not  at  all !  I  can't  believe  that,  Judge.  We'll 
manage  it  all  in  some  way,  Aurora  and  I.  And,  nat 
urally  we  come  to  you  as  our  champion — who  should 
help  us  if  not  you  yourself?  Do  I  say  too  much,  Judge 
Henderson?"  she  inquired  timidly. 

"No,  not  too  much,"  said  he  with  much  modesty,  "not 
too  much,  I  trust.  I  hope  I  have  always  had,  at  every 
stage  of  my  own  career,  the  confidence  of  all  my  friends 
in  this  community." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  "But  also,  Miss  Julia,"  he 
continued,  raising  a  hand,  "wait  a  minute — wait  a 
minute.  In  order  to  deserve  the  confidence  of  all  my 
friends  I  have  always  been  forced  to  adhere  to  that 
course  which  to  me  and  my  own  conscience  seemed  just 

221 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


and  right.  I  will  not  undertake  to  di3guise  the  truth, 
Miss  Julia,  I  am  already  retained  for  the  prosecution  of 
this  case.  I  must  not  listen  to  you  coming  to  ask  me  to 
act  for  the  defense.  That  at  least  is  the  present  status 
of  affairs.  I  shall  be  guided  all  along  by  my  sense  of 
right  and  duty.  At  present  I  cannot  take  the  case  for 
the  defense." 

She  was  feeling  at  the  head  of  her  stick,  stumblingly, 
half  rising.  Suddenly  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  walls 
were  closing  in  upon  her,  that  she  must  get  away,  get 
out  into  the  open. 

"That's  cruel!"  she  exclaimed. 

"At  times  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  be  cruel,"  said  Judge 
Henderson,  virtuously.  "If  I  am  cruel,  I  regret  with  all 
my  heart  that  it  must  be  cruelty  to  one  whom  so  long  I 
have  held  in  such  esteem  as  I  do  you.  We  have  long 
known  your  life,  how  exquisitely  ordered  it  has  been.  I 
have  never  known  before,  of  course,  how  much  it  was 
wrapped  up  with  this  young  man's  life.  I  am  astonished 
at  what  I  have  learned.  It  is  only  my  own  high  standard 
of  honor,  my  dear — that  same  standard  to  which  I  have 
unflinchingly  adhered  at  whatever  cost  it  might  entail 
upon  me — which  enables  me  to  refuse  any  request  that 
you  might  make  me.  Now  I  am  pained  and  grieved,  I 
am  indeed." 

A  tear  stood  in  the  corner  of  Judge  Henderson's  eyes. 
It  was  an  argument  which  he  always  had  at  hand  if  need 

222 


THE  ANGELS  AND  MISS  JULIA 

were — an  argument  which  had  won  him  perhaps  more 
than  one  case  before  a  jury.  And  now  he  felt  himself, 
as  always,  the  central  figure,  appealing  to  a  jury,  ex 
tenuating,  explaining,  expounding.  Moreover,  he  felt 
himself  misjudged,  an  injured  man.  He  did  not  care  at 
the  time  to  divulge  any  of  the  plan  he  but  now  had  con 
fided  to  Aurora  and  Anne. 

"I  have  hurt  you !"  said  Miss  Julia,  impulsively.  "Oh, 
I  would  never  mean  to  do  that."  She  held  out  a  hand 
swiftly,  in  part  forgetful  of  her  errand. 

He  took  her  hand  in  both  his  own — small  and  white 
it  was,  and  veined  somewhat,  ink-stained  as  to  some  of 
the  fingers — a  hand  which  rested  trembling  in  his  own. 
(Now,  what  the  angels  saw  is  not  for  mortals  to  inquire ! 
"He  took  my  hand  in  both  his  own !"  wrote  Mi-ss  Julia 
in  her  diary.) 

Judge  Henderson  gallantly  clasped  the  hand  and  drew 
it  a  trifle  closer  to  his  bosom.  "You  believe  me,  do  you 
not,  my  dear?"  said  he.  "It  grieves  me  to  give  you  any 
pain.  As  for  me,  it  does  not  matter."  He  dashed  the 
tear  from  his  eye. 

But  now  Miss  Julia's  courage  failed  her.  Her  double 
sacrifice  for  the  child  and  the  child's  unknown  and  un 
created  father  had  failed !  She  limped  toward  the  door. 
Her  great  adventure  was  ended. 

But,  at  least,  she  had  been  alone  in  the  presence  of  the 
great  man  whom  she  had  loved  these  many  years.  And 

223 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


she  had  found  him  in  all  ways  worthy !  He  was  still  a 
hero  in  her  eyes,  a  great  man,  a  noble  man — yes,  she  was 
sure  of  that. 

How  must  the  angels  have  sighed  as  Miss  Julia  stum 
bled  down  the  stair  with  this  thing  in  her  heart!  For, 
in  all  her  heart,  she  knew  that,  had  she  been  young  as 
Aurora  Lane  once  was  young,  and  had  such  a  man  as 
this  asked  of  her  anything — anything — she  would  have 
given !  She  would  have  yielded  gladly  all  she  had  to 
yield — she  would  have  given  her  life  into  his  keeping. 
.  .  .  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  love,  if  not  the 
kingdom  of  heaven.  And  as  to  that  last  let  the  angels 
say,  who  watched  poor  Miss  Julia  as  she  stumbled  down 
the  stair. 


CHAPTER   XVI 
HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY  AT  LAW 

AS  for  Aurora  Lane,  at  about  the  time  Miss  Julia 
was  leaving  Judge  Henderson's  office,  she  herself 
was  in  the  office  of  another  lawyer  upon  the  op 
posite  side  of  the  square — the  man  Henderson  hated  and 
feared  more  than  any  other  human  being. 

Horace  Brooks,  after  his  usual  fashion,  was  spending 
his  Sunday  afternoon  in  his  legal  chambers.  He  lived 
as  a  bachelor,  the  sole  boarder  of  a  family  far  out  toward 
the  edge  of  town — a  family  that  had  no  social  standing, 
but  that  never  became  accustomed  to  the  ways  of  Mr. 
Brooks,  who  came  and  went,  ate,  slept,  and  acted,  as  one 
largely  in  a  trance,  so  occupied  was  he  with  thoughts  of 
his  business  affairs.  Never  was  a  soul  less  concerned 
with  conventions  or  formalities  than  he;  nor  one  more 
absorbed,  more  concentrated  of  purpose  in  large  things. 

He  was  sitting  now,  as  often  he  might  have  been  seen 
to  sit,  tilted  back  in  his  chair,  with  his  feet  on  his  table, 
where  rested  in  extreme  disorder  many  volumes  of  the 
law,  some  opened,  face-down,  others  piled  in  untidy 
masses  here  and  there.  Mr.  Brooks  had  no  clerk  and  no 
partner.  When  he  cited  an  authority  in  his  library  he 

225 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


left  the  book  where  last  it  was  used,  and  searched  for  it 
pellmell  if  later  need  arose.  This  same  system  applied 
to  every  other  article  of  use  in  the  entire  office — it  was 
all  chance  medley,  and  the  pursuit  of  the  desired  article 
was  short  or  long  in  accordance  with  the  luck  of  the 
searcher. 

Around  him  on  the  floor  lay  countless  burned 
matches,  a  pipe  or  two  which  scattered  tobacco.  The 
floor  itself  was  covered  layers  deep  with  the  ruins  of 
two  Sunday  papers — at  which  form  of  journalism  Hor 
ace  Brooks  openly  scoffed,  but  none  the  less  ruthless 
ly  devoured  after  his  own  fashion  each  Sabbath  after 
noon. 

He  sat  with  his  bearded  chin  sunk  in  his  shirt  bosom, 
his  mild  blue  eye  seeing  nothing  at  all,  his  hands  idle  in 
his  lap.  He  was  concluding  his  Sabbath  as  usually  he 
did,  in  the  midst  of  the  scenes  surrounding  his  daily  toil 
throughout  the  week.  He  started  at  the  sound  of  Aurora 
Lane's  knock  on  the  door. 

"Come  in!"  he  called. 

He  supposed  it  was  some  young  lawyer  from  one  of 
the  offices  down  the  hall,  where  struggling  students,  or 
clerks  from  the  abstract  offices,  sometimes  brought  knotty 
problems  for  him  to  solve.  These  folk  still  lived  in  the 
rear  of  their  offices — as  indeed  Horace  Brooks  but  re 
cently  had  done  himself.  A  disorderly  couch  still  might 
have  been  found  in  the  room  beyond,  fragments  of  soap, 

226 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

a  soiled  towel  or  so,  a  broken  comb,  a  sidelong  mirror — 
lingering  traces  of  his  own  humble  and  arduous  begin 
nings  in  the  law. 

But  he  turned  half  about  now,  and  dropped  his  feet 
to  the  floor  as  he  heard  the  rustle  of  a  gown.  He  sat 
half  leaning  forward  as  Aurora  Lane  entered.  He  had 
small  training  in  the  social  usages — he  did  not  always 
rise  when  a  woman  entered  the  room,  unless  some  special 
reason  for  that  act  existed.  So  he  sat  for  just  a  time,  and 
looked  at  her,  the  fact  of  her  presence  seeming  slowly 
to  filter  into  his  brain.  Then  quickly  he  stood  and  went 
forward  to  her,  his  rare  smile  illuminating  his  homely 
features. 

"Come  in,"  said  he.  "Will  you  be  seated  ?  Why  have 
you  come  here  ?"  He  was  simple  and  direct  of  habit. 

Aurora  Lane  looked  at  him  not  only  with  the  eyes  of 
a  client,  but  with  the  eyes  of  a  woman.  She  saw  plainly 
the  quick  look  of  eagerness,  the  swift  hopefulness  which 
came  into  his  eyes. 

But  she  must  forestall  all  that.  "Mr.  Brooks,"  said 
she,  "I've  come  to  you  for  help — I  need  your  professional 
services." 

He  sat  looking  at  her  gravely  for  some  time,  the  light 
in  his  face  slowly  fading  away.  "Help?"  said  he,  "As 
how?"  He  was  of  the  plain  people,  and  at  times  lapsed 
into  the  colloquial  inelegancies  of  his  early  life.  But  he 
needed  little  divination  now  to  know  that  Aurora  Lane 

227 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


came  to  him  for  no  personal  reasons  that  offered  him  any 
hope. 

"It's  about  my  boy,"  said  Aurora.    "You  know — Don." 

He  nodded  slowly.  "Yes,  I  know — the  coroner's  jury 
has  held  him  over." 

"But  he's  in  jail." 

"Yes,  they  had  that  right — to  hold  him  for  the  in 
vestigation  of  the  grand  jury.  And  this  is  a  grand  jury 
matter,  as  you  must  know.  Court  opens  tomorrow.  The 
grand  jury  sits  tomorrow  morning.  At  least  the  pre 
liminaries  won't  take  long.  But  the  outlook  is  bad, 
Aurora — they  mean  to  get  him  if  they  can." 

Aurora  Lane  for  a  third  time  that  day  produced  from 
her  shabby  pocket  book  the  little  worn  bill  which  repre 
sented  her  sole  worldly  fortune.  A  flush  rose  to  her 
temples  now  as  she  held  it  hesitatingly  between  her 
fingers. 

He  saw  it  very  plainly,  and  caught  something  of  her 
meaning  in  the  pause.  A  slow  red  came  also  into  his 
own  face. 

"You'd  better  keep  that  for  the  present,"  said  he  slowly 
after  a  time.  He  pushed  her  fingers  back  with  the  bill. 
"I  know  this  is  professional,  but  I  can't  take  money  from 
you  now — not  that  money — because  I  know  very  well 
you've  got  none  you  can  afford  to  spend.  Aurora,  there's 
no  use  trying  to  have  secrets  from  me — we  know  each 
other  too  well." 

228 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

"But  what  right  do  you  leave  me  then  to  come  to  you  ?" 

"I  don't  know  that  you  have  any  right  to  come  to  me 
at  all,"  said  he  slowly.  "I've  my  own  right  to  decline 
to  deal  with  you  at  all  in  business  matters.  And  you 
come  here  on  business." 

Aurora  sank  back  into  her  chair.  "Then  what  could 
I  do?"  she  said  faintly. 

"Have  you  tried  Henderson  ?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  faintly,  and  with  much  reluctance, 
"I  did." 

"Why,  if  you  wanted  me  ?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  that.  But  I  did.  He  refused  to  have 
anything  to  do  with  the  defense  for  my  boy." 

"Very  naturally — very  naturally.  Didn't  you  know 
he  would  before  you  went  to  ask  him?  Couldn't  you 
guess  that  ? — couldn't  you  have  figured  out  that  much  for 
your  own  self?  Didn't  you  know  that  man?  He's  not 
with  the  under  dog." 

"It  seems  not,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  wearily.  "So  I 
came  to  you." 

"Even  after  last  night  ?" 

"Yes,  after  last  night.  At  first  it  was  hard  to  think 
of  it." 

"Aurora,"  said  he,  "I  reckon  I'm  not  a  very  practical 
sort  of  man.  If  I  were — if  I  were  a  man  like  Judge 
Henderson,  say,  I'd  clamp  on  the  screws  right  now.  I'd 
try  to  get  you  to  alter  what  you  said  to  me  last  night." 

229 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"It  wouldn't  be  like  you.  You've  never  yet — in  all  our 
lives — done  anything  like  that." 

"No?  I'm  second  choice — that's  my  fate,  is  it — that's 
as  high  as  I  get?  Yes,  I  reckon  that's  about  a  fair  esti 
mate  of  me — I'm  a  typical  second  choice  man.  I  suppose 
I'll  have  to  accept  that  fact."  And  now  he  laughed  up 
roariously,  though  none  too  happily. 

"Well,  Aurora,"  said  he  after  a  time,  "you  have  broken 
in  here,  anyway — just  as  I  broke  down  your  gate  last 
night  in  my  own  clumsiness.  Suppose  we  call  it  quits. 
Let's  not  figure  too  close  on  the  moving  consideration. 
There's  nothing  you  can  give  Horace  Brooks,  attorney  at 
law,  in  the  way  of  pay.  And  you  need  Horace  Brooks — 
only  as  attorney  at  law.  What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  but  all  that  can  be  done  now  for  him 
you  can  do.  I've  nowhere  else  to  go.  It  wasn't  easy  for 
me  to  come  here,  but  I'd  make  any  sacrifice  for  my  boy." 

"Sacrifices  are  at  a  discount  in  a  lawyer's  office.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  reconsider  your  decision,  as  to  me — as 
to  me  as  your  husband.  But  speaking  of  sacrifices,  I  only 
point  out  to  you  that  so  far  as  I'm  concerned  as  a  lawyer 
in  this  town,  I  might  as  well  be  your  husband  or  your 
lover  as  your  lawyer  of  record  in  this  case!  Since  the 
trial  yesterday,  and  my  walk  home  with  you  last  night, 
there'll  be  plenty  who'll  think  so  anyway.  I  may  be  held 
as  a  man  worse  than  I  ever  was — and  neither  of  us  gain 
by  that." 

230 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

'That  may  be  so,"  said  she,  bending  her  face  forward 
in  her  hands.  "God !  What  a  trial,  what  a  risk,  what  a 
peril  I  am  to  myself  and  everyone  I  meet !  I've  brought 
loss,  suspicion,  wrong  on  you — you  who're  noble !  And 
after  twenty  years " 

"Yes,  Aurora.  Twenty  years  outlaws  a  claim  in  the 
law — for  men — but  not  for  women.  Now,  I  take  on 
those  twenty  years  of  yours  when  I  take  on  this  case. 
I'm  clear  about  that.  I  can  see  this  thing  straight  enough. 
This  town  will  go  into  two  camps.  Ours  is  the  hopeless 
one,  as  things  stand  now.  We  are  the  under  dog.  If 
I  took  this  case — maybe  even  if  I  won  it — I'd  be  hated 
by  the  men  and  snubbed  by  the  women  of  this  town. 
Now,  I  see  all  that  clearly.  And  speaking  of  pay " 

"Oh,  if  you  would,"  she  exclaimed,  leaning  toward 
him,  her  hands  extended,  "I'd  do  anything  you  asked  me. 
Do  you  understand  that — anything!" 

She  paused.  In  the  silence  the  little  clock  on  the 
mantel  ticked  so  loud  it  seemed  almost  to  burst  the  walls. 
He  sat  for  a  long  time  motionless,  and  she  went  on, 
leaning  yet  more  toward  him. 

"I've  thought  it  all  over  again,"  she  said  desperately. 
"I'd — I'd  begin  it  again — I'd  do  anything — I'd  do  any 
thing  you  asked  me Why,  I've  nothing — nothing — 

oh,  so  little  to  give !  But — as  to  what  you  said  last  night 
— I've  thought  of  that.  I'm  ready — what  is  it  that  you 
wish?" 

231 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


He  looked  at  her  dumbly  for  a  long  time,  and  she 
thought  it  was  in  condemnation.  For  almost  the  first 
time  she  voiced  in  her  life — continually  on  the  defensive. 

"I  don't  understand  it  all,"  said  she.  "I've  tried  very 
hard  since  then.  I  was  so  young.  I  didn't  know  much 
at  first — I  didn't  feel  that  it  was  all  so  wrong— I  didn't 
know  much  of  anything  at  all,  don't  you  see?" 

Now  he  raised  his  great  hand,  his  lips  trembling. 
"Just  wait  a  bit,  my  dear,"  said  he.  "We'll  take  what 
you've  said  as  proof  of  your  love  for  your  own  son. 
We'll  let  it  stop  right  there,  please.  We'll  forget  what 
happened  last  night  at  your  broken  gate — we'll  forget 
what's  happened  just  now  inside  my  broken  gate,  I  told 
you  if  I  ever  married  you  I'd  do  it  on  such  a  basis  that  I 
could  look  you  in  the  face,  and  you  could  me.  That's 
the  only  way,  Aurora.  There's  not  any  other  way.  I 
reckon  I'll  always  love  you — but  only  on  the  square." 

"But  what  can  we  do — you  refuse  to  help  us — and  the 
boy's  innocent!" 

"Wait,  my  dear,"  said  he  slowly.  "I've  not  a  woman's 
wit,  so  I  can't  leap  on  quite  so  fast  as  you  do.  A  lawyer 
reads  word  by  word.  I'm  still  in  the  preliminaries,  not 
even  into  the  argument  of  this  case  yet." 

"But  you  have  refused — you  have  said  it  meant  ruin 
to  you — I  know — I  mean  that  to  everyone." 

"You've  meant  a  great  deal  more  than  that  to  me,  my 
dear,"  said  Horace  Brooks,  "and  no  matter  what  you 

232 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

mean — no  matter  what  my  decision  may  do  to  my  future 
— no  matter  what  it  may  cost  me  in  my  larger  ambitions, 
which  I  entertain,  or  once  did,  the  same  as  any  other 
man  here  in  America — why,  let  it  go." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do?  I'm  costing  you 
everything,  everything — and  I  can  give  you  nothing,  noth 
ing — and  I'm  asking  still  of  you  everything,  everything." 

"Tut,  tut!  Aurora,"  said  Horace  Brooks,  "I'm  going 
to  take  this  case — for  better  or  for  worse !  Didn't  I  tell 
you  I  wanted  to  stand  between  you  and  trouble — any 
trouble?  A  man  likes  to  do  things  for  a  woman — for 
the  woman  he  loves." 

She  sat  for  a  long  time,  white,  motionless,  looking  at 
him. 

"The  pay "  she  began  stumblingly. 

"I'd  rather  not  hear  you  say  anything  about  that,"  he 
replied  simply.  "You  did  not  say  anything  at  all.  This 
is  the  office  of  Horace  Brooks,  attorney  at  law.  As  I 
understand  it,  I'm  duly  retained  for  the  defense  in  the 
case  of  the  state  against  Dieudonne  Lane,  charged  with 
murder." 

The  blood  came  pouring  back  into  Aurora  Lane's  face 
as  she  straightened.  "You  are  a  good  man/'  said  she. 
"I  always  knew  it.  I " 

He  raised  a  hand  once  more.  "These  are  business 
hours,"  said  he,  "and  believe  me,  no  time  is  left  for 
anyone  to  do  anything  but  work  on  this  case." 

233 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"He's  innocent,  of  course.  He  couldn't  have  done  this 
— who  was  it,  do  you  think?" 

"Oh,  now,  I  don't  know  who  it  was.  It  may  have  been 
Don  himself.  All  men  are  human.  A  lawyer  has  to  look 
all  the  facts  in  any  case  square  in  the  face." 

"But,  my  God!  You  can't  think — you  don't  be 
lieve " 

"Please  let  me  act  as  attorney.  Now,  I'm  to  blame  in 
a  sort  of  way  in  this  case.  I  started  a  good  deal  of  this 
trouble.  I  gave  your  boy  the  advice  which  threw  him  in 
jail — when  I  told  him  to  thrash  any  man  who  said  a 
word  against  his  mother — you.  He's  made  a  certain 
threat  or  two.  He's  been  found  in  very  compromising 
circumstances  indeed.  The  case  looks  bad  against  him. 
Yes,  he  needs  a  lawyer — but  he's  got  one !  We'll  fight  it 
through.  You  see,"  and  he  smiled  again  his  wide  and 
winning  smile,  "all  my  life,  I've  had  a  sort  of  leaning 
for  the  under  dog. 

"Now,"  said  he,  abruptly  rising,  "I'm  in  this  case,  and 
I'm  going  to  take  my  chances.  I've  lost  my  chances  on 
the  Senatorship  of  the  United  States.  I've  kept  my 
promise  to  Henderson  and  I've  sent  word  to  our  central 
committee.  I'm  the  under  dog.  But  before  all  this  is 
over,  the  people  of  .Spring  Valley  are  going  to  know  there 
are  two  sides  to  this  fight — and  all  these  fights ! 

"Now,  listen,  Aurora,"  he  went  on  in  his  careless 
paternal  fashion,  as  he  walked,  his  great  head  drooped, 

234 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

his  hands  thrust  into  his  pockets.  "Figure  it  over.  Last 
night  we  three  walked  home  together — before  them  all. 
Everybody  saw  us.  Everybody  saw  Tarbush.  It  can 
be  proved  that  Don  left  us  and  went  over,  following 
after  Tarbush.  It  can  be  proved  that  he  was  seen  run 
ning  away  from  that  place — at  just  the  wrong  time — in 
just  the  wrong  way." 

"But  it  was  someone  else  who  killed  him — it  wasn't 
my  boy " 

"You  can't  convince  a  jury  by  assertions.  If  it  was 
not  this  man,  they  will  ask,  Who  was  it?  Who  was  the 
other  man,  and  why  do  you  think  so?  Now,  who  was 
that  other  man,  Aurora?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"Neither  do  I.  But  we've  got  to  find  him.  There's  no 
trace  of  him.  But  as  for  Don,  the  boy,  it's  a  trail,  a  plain 

one,  and  it  leads "  He  threw  out  his  hands  widely, 

as  though  reluctant  to  name  the  truth. 

"But,"  he  went  on,  "if  he  isn't  guilty  someone  else  is 
guilty.  Under  this  criminal  act  in  all  its  phases  there 
lies  some  cause,  of  course — there  is  some  criminal,  of 
course.  There  has  been  crime  committed,  a  very 
beastly,  brutal  sort  of  crime,  almost  inhuman — and  that 
was  done  by  some  man.  If  I  could  put  my  hand  on  that 
man,  why  then " 

"It  would  mean  life  and  happiness  to  me.  It  would 
mean  satisfaction  to  you?" 

235 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"More  than  that/'  he  smiled.  "It  would  mean  the  life 
of  your  boy — many  years  yet  for  you  and  him  together — 
once  I'd  have  said  maybe  it  might  mean  six  years  in  the 
United  States  Senate  for  me.  I  don't  know — I  can't 
tell.  The  chances  now  are  rather  that  even  if  I  clear 
the  boy,  it  means  I'll  have  to  close  up  this  office  and  go 
somewhere  else  to  hunt  a  law  practice.  But  we'll  take 
our  chances." 

"You  are  a  great  man,  Horace  Brooks/'  said  Aurora 
Lane;  and  there  was  a  sort  of  reverence  in  her  tone. 
"Even  after  what  has  been  between  us,  I  can  say  that. 
Oh,  I  so  much  like — I  so  much  admire  a  man  who  is  not 
afraid,  and  who  doesn't  parley  and  weigh  and  dicker 
with  himself  when  it  comes  to  any  hard  decision.  I  like 
a  brave  man,  a  good  man.  You'll  understand." 

He  raised  a  hand,  a  large  hand,  nervous,  full-veined, 
gnarled,  awkward,  a  hand  never  in  all  his  life  to  be  freed 
from  toil's  indelible  imprint. 

"Please  don't,"  said  he. 

"But  how  can  I  say  what  I  want?"  said  she.  "I've 
always  wanted  to  pay  all  my  debts — that's  to  make  up  for 
all  my  faults,  don't  you  see?  I  must  be  scrupulous — 
because " 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "I  see.  I've  seen  that  for  more  than 
twenty  years,  ever  since  I've  known  you.  Because  that's 
true  of  you,  and  is  true  of  so  few  women,  so  very  few, 
is  why  I  wished  last  night — that  you  were  a  widow! 

236 


HORACE  BROOKS,  ATTORNEY 

"Now,  that's  about  all.  When  you  wish  that  you  could 
pay  this  debt — which  isn't  any  debt  so  far — you've  paid 
it,  so  far  as  I'm  concerned.  It  is  the  wish  to  pay  your 
debts  that  amounts  to  moral  principle — and  to  business 
success  too — in  this  world. 

"And  so,"  he  laughed  again  his  great  resounding  laugh, 
and  thrust  out  his  hand  toward  her,  "I  reckon  you  can 
call  yourself  something  of  a  business  success  tonight 
after  all.  Now  go  home,  and  see  that  you  sleep." 


CHAPTER   XVII 
AT  CHURCH 

THAT  Sunday  evening  Aurora  Lane  sat  alone  in 
her  dingy  little  home.  The  walls  seemed  to  her 
close  as  those  of  any  prison.  She  found  about 
her  nothing  of  comfort.  For  once  the  little  white  bed 
side,  all  her  life  her  shrine,  failed  in  its  ministration. 
There  rose  in  her  heart  a  great  vague  hunger  for  gregari 
ous  worship — the  sort  which  all  these  others  had  freely 
offered  every  week  of  all  their  lives — that  same  wish 
for  gregarious  worship  on  which  are  based  all  the 
churches,  all  the  creeds,  of  all  the  world.  As  never  in 
her  life  before  Aurora  felt  now  that  she  could  no  longer 
fight  alone,  in  solitude — she  needed  something — she 
needed  the  sight  of  other  faces,  the  touch  of  other 
hearts;  needed  the  assemblage,  the  crowd — needed,  in 
short,  the  world  en  masse,  as  we  all  do.  She  had  lived 
without  association  and  without  sympathy  too  long.  Now 
her  starved  nature  at  last  rebelled. 

So,  having  prayed  faithfully,  Aurora  Lane  rose  not 
wholly  comforted;  and  therefore  she  resolved  to  break 
the  habit  of  her  life,  as  she  had  lived  it  more  than  twenty 
years  in  this  little  town.  In  all  that  time  she  had  not 

238 


AT  CHURCH 


been  within  the  door  of  any  church,  but  now  she  felt  that 
she  must  go — must  be  at  least  in  part  like  to  all  these 
others  on  this  evening  of  the  Sabbath  day. 

The  main  note  of  such  a  community  as  Spring  Valley 
is  that  of  a  resigned  acceptance  of  life.  This  means  a 
drab  middle  course,  of  small  heroics,  which  yet  does  not 
debar  from  a  quiet  sympathy  and  mutual  understanding. 
This  in  turn  essentially  implies  some  manner  of  religious 
belief,  for  the  most  part  of  the  passive,  un-investigative 
sort.  Without  doubt  the  church  of  this  or  that  denomina 
tion — and  in  any  such  community  there  will  be  many — 
is  the  club  and  the  court  alike  to  those  who  maintain  its 
beliefs — aye,  and  it  is  their  hope  and  stay  as  well. 

Aurora  chose  the  largest  church,  where  there  was  most 
apt  to  be  the  largest  congregation.  Passing  there,  she 
had  heard  the  organ  roll  in  its  moving  appeal.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  must  hear  music  or  she  must  starve,  must 
die.  The  drain  on  her  nature  now  had  been  so  great  that, 
much  as  every  impulse  drew  her  to  yonder  other  edifice, 
the  one  with  iron  bars  where  lay  her  own  son,  a  prisoner, 
she  could  not  go  there,  could  not  see  him  again,  until  she 
herself  had  had  restoration  of  some  of  the  forces  of  her 
own  life.  She  wanted  music — she  wanted  light — she 
wanted  the  presence,  close,  near  to  her,  of  other  human 
beings.  Surely  they  must  know — surely  they  too  must 
some  time  have  suffered,  have  grieved,  have  yearned. 

The  slow  life  of  the  little  town,  which  the  excitement 

239 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


of  this  extraordinary  Sabbath  had  so  largely  diverted 
from  its  usual  channels,  now  began  to  reassemble  and  to 
trickle  toward  the  conventional  meeting  grounds.  Those 
who  had  been  delinquent  at  the  morning  services  were  at 
least  tonight  devout. 

There  is  a  sort  of  life  of  affairs,  a  sort  of  business  life, 
of  any  church  in  any  community.  Thus,  there  may  be 
many  meetings  beside  that  of  the  Sabbath  day,  in  each 
church  in  any  community.  There  must  fall  the  practice 
of  the  choir,  weekly,  usually  of  Wednesday,  sometimes  of 
Saturday  evenings  as  well,  if  the  anthem  prove  especially 
difficult  of  mastery. 

As  to  the  choir  proper,  there  must  of  course  be  the 
soprano — not  always  elocutionist,  as  was  the  soprano  in 
this  church  of  Spring  Valley — but  always  well-clad,  most 
frequently  with  long  and  glossy  curls  of  chestnut  and  the 
most  modish  hat  of  any  in  the  church.  Most  tenors  are 
bank  clerks  or  cashiers.  It  is  the  function  of  the  tenor 
in  any  such  choir  to  escort  the  soprano  to  her  home.  The 
contralto  is  for  the  most  part  married,  beginning  to  show 
embonpoint.  She  is  brunette,  with  wide  and  pleasant 
mouth ;  is  able  to  make  excellent  currant  jelly,  of  which 
she  gives  her  neighbors  generously.  Her  attire  is  apt  to 
be  not  quite  so  well-appointed  as  that  of  the  soprano, 
which  indeed  should  not  be  expected  of  the  mother  of 
three,  the  arrangement  of  those  white  starched  collars 
in  a  part  of  each  Sunday's  task.  The  basso  may  some- 

240 


AT  CHURCH 


times  be  a  school  teacher,  yet  some  of  the  best  have  been 
owners  of  livery  barns,  no  more;  modest  folk  withal, 
and  covetous  of  the  back  seat  in  the  choir. 

To  this  essential  personnel  of  the  church  choir  there 
may  be  added  others,  supplements  or  understudies  for 
this  or  that  musical  part,  young  men  with  large  cameo 
pins  in  their  cravats,  young  women  with  spectacles.  All 
these  who  sing  soprano  or  contralto,  at  least  all  who  still 
are  young,  must  be  taken  home  after  services — not  only 
the  regular  services  of  the  church,  but  those  of  the  choir 
practice  midway  of  the  week  or  at  the  week's  close.  And 
thereto,  one  must  count  the  weekly  prayer  meetings, 
mostly  for  the  old,  but  for  the  young  in  part. 

It  is,  therefore,  easy  to  be  seen  that  the  vestibule  of 
any  Spring  Valley  church  of  a  Wednesday  evening,  some 
times  of  a  Thursday  evening,  quite  often  a  Saturday 
evening,  and  always  of  a  Sunday  evening,  must  hold  a 
certain  lay  representation  of  the  community.  It  is,  or 
once  was,  one  of  the  proper  functions  of  the  village 
church  to  act  as  social  meeting  ground.  Practically  all 
of  the  respectable  marriages  in  Spring  Valley  actually 
were  contracted,  at  least  as  to  the  preliminary  stages, 
under  the  eaves  of  this  or  that  church. 

The  vestibule  was  crowded  this  Sunday  evening,  as 
was  customary,  when  Aurora  Lane,  quite  alone,  turned 
in  from  the  sidewalk  and  ascended  the  eight  broad 
wooden  steps  up  to  the  church  door.  Passing  thence  to 

241 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  inner  door,  she  felt  the  silence  which  came  upon  the 
boys  and  young  men  who  loitered  there,  waiting  for  the 
entrance  or  the  exit  of  those  of  the  opposite  sex.  She 
felt  the  stares  which  fell  upon  her — felt,  rather  than 
saw,  the  icy  disapproval  which  greeted  her  even  here, 
even  among  these.  But  she  passed  by,  entered  the  house 
of  worship,  and  sank  into  a  seat  very  far  back  in  the 
long,  bare,  ghastly,  rectangular  room. 

Before  or  after  the  entry  of  Aurora  Lane,  there  failed 
not  in  coming  those  who  sit  in  judgment  upon  the  lives 
of  their  fellows — the  baker,  the  butcher,  the  school 
teacher,  the  hanger  of  paper,  the  maker  of  candlesticks 
as  well.  All  these  were  here,  parts  of  the  life  of  this 
community.  Miss  Julia  was  not  there,  as  Aurora  Lane 
discovered.  She  wondered  dully  if  it  had  not  been  her 
duty  to  go  around  to  the  library  and  ask  for  Miss  Julia ; 
but  the  longing  for  personal  solitude  had  been  as  strong 
in  her  heart  as  the  longing  for  silent  human  companion 
ship,  so  she  had  come  alone.  In  truth  Miss  Julia  was 
recreant  tonight.  She  was  alone  in  her  own  room — alone 
with  her  diary— that  is  to  say,  face  to  face  with  the  pic 
ture  of  the  same  man  whom  Aurora  Lane  had  met  that 
afternoon. 

In  the  slowly  filling  pews  there  reigned  now  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  shuffling  footfalls  of  the  arrivals,  that 
uneasy,  solemn  silence  which  holds  those  seated  and 
waiting  for  the  services  at  church.  A  school  teacher  who 

242 


AT  CHURCH 


was  born  in  the  East  somewhere  leaned  her  head  forward 
on  the  back  of  the  seat  before  her,  and  with  a  certain 
ostentation  prayed,  or  seemed  to  pray.  Others  would 
have  done  this  very  fetching  thing  as  well,  but  lacked 
the  courage,  so  sat  coldly,  stiffly,  unhappily,  bolt  upright, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  the  minister. 

The  tenor  came  after  a  time,  soon  following  the  so 
prano,  models  alike  of  social  graces  and  correct  attire. 
They  passed  modestly,  seemingly  unregardful  of  the 
glances  bent  upon  them.  The  bass  singer  was  more  con 
scious  of  his  ill-fitting  clothes  as  he  hurried  up  the  aisle, 
his  Adam's  apple  agitated,  betokening  his  lack  of  ease. 
The  soprano  by  this  time  was  shaking  out  her  curls, 
fussing  among  the  music  sheets  at  the  top  of  the  organ, 
pushing  back  the  stool,  twirling  its  top  about — all  the 
while  still  quite  highly  unmindful  of  the  gazes  of  the 
audience.  The  contralto  came  last,  her  brow  furrowed 
with  the  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  not  left  the  cold 
meat  on  the  table  where  her  husband,  the  doctor,  would 
find  it  when  he  came  back  from  the  country. 

Came  also  in  due  and  proper  time  the  minister  of 
church,  the  pillar  of  it  all,  bearing  in  his  hand,  rolled  in 
its  leather  case,  the  sermon  which  he  had  written  last 
Thursday  morning — and  which  perforce  he  had  been 
obliged  wholly  to  rewrite  since  Saturday  at  noon !  For, 
be  sure,  this  sermon  must  take  up  the  issues  of  the  day — 
must  stand  for  the  weekly  platform  of  the  town's  moral- 

243 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


ity.  The  eyes  of  all  now  were  bent  upon  the  little  roll 
of  leather  in  the  preacher's  hand.  They  knew  what 
must  be  there.  In  a  way  they  moistened  their  lips.  This 
was  why  the  attendance  was  so  large  and  prompt  to 
night. 

But  Aurora  Lane,  unskilled  in  any  of  these  things,  the 
prey  to  so  many  conflicting  emotions  at  this  hour,  a 
novice  in  the  house  of  God,  sat  silent,  her  hands  folded, 
well  enough  aware  she  was  not  welcomed  by  those  who 
saw  her  there,  yet  craving  of  them,  dumbly,  anguished, 
all  their  tolerance  in  her  time  of  need. 

Now  the  organ  rolled  after  its  fashion.  There  were 
voices  not  too  highly  skilled,  perhaps,  yet  after  all  pro 
ductive  of  a  certain  melody.  The  music  softened  the 
ice  of  Aurora  Lane's  heart.  She  felt  that  after  all  she 
was  a  human  being,  as  these  others  all  about  her.  Was 
not  this  anthem  universal  in  its  wording?  Did  it  not 
say  "Come  unto  Me"?  Did  it  not  say  something  about 
"All  ye"  ? — something  about  "Whosoever"  ?  And  Aurora 
Lane,  all  her  life  debarred  from  this  manner  of  human 
classification,  felt  her  heart  tremble  within  her  bosom  as 
she  heard  these  universal,  all-embracing  words.  Those 
about  her,  righteous,  virtuous,  heard  them  not  at  all, 
because  they  had  been  sung  so  oft  before. 

The  text  of  the  evening  matters  little.  Everyone  there, 
excepting  Aurora  Lane,  knew  that  the  real  text  was  the 
red-handed  young  criminal  lying  in  the  prison. 

244 


AT  CHURCH 


The  preacher  invoked  the  wrath  of  God  upon  him  who 
had  raised  his  hand  against  the  life  of  one  of  the  town's 
beloved.  He  read  large  lessons  as  to  right  living,  educed 
all  proper  morals  from  these  events,  so  startling,  which 
had  come  upon  this  peaceful  town.  In  short,  he  preached 
what  manner  of  sermon  he  must  have  preached  in  this 
manner  of  church  and  this  manner  of  town.  At  times 
his  voice  was  low  and  tense,  at  times  his  tones  grew 
thunderous.  And  every  word  he  said  he  felt  was  true, 
or  thought  was  true,  or  hoped  to  be  the  truth;  because 
he  himself  had  written  it;  and  this  was  the  Lord's  day; 
and  these  were  the  services  wherein  the  Lord  is  wor 
shiped  regularly. 

But  the  music  of  the  anthem  remained  in  Aurora 
Lane's  soul,  so  that  she  was  practically  unconscious  of 
all  this.  Her  mind  was  vague,  dazed.  She  did  not  know 
her  son  had  been  tried  and  found  guilty.  The  words 
clung  in  her  heart ;  "All  ye" ;  "Whosoever."  And  pres 
ently  they  sang  yet  another  hymn,  and  in  it  again  were 
the  words,  "Come  unto  Me !"  There  was  great  emotional 
uplift  in  all  Spring  Valley  this  day.  The  minister  felt 
the  emotion,  here  upon  the  souls  of  his  audience.  He 
prayed  for  what  he  termed  an  awakening. 

But  Aurora  was  not  awakened.  On  the  contrary,  for 
a  time  her  strained  senses  seemed  dull,  relaxed.  Only  she 
heard  the  music,  only  the  Divine  words  still  lingered  in 
her  consciousness.  It  seemed  but  a  moment  to  her  be- 

245 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


fore  she  saw  all  the  others  rising  noisily,  opening  hymn 
books,  for  the  final  hymn.  She  herself  therefore  rose  and 
stood  silently,  her  hands  folded  before  her,  her  eyes  fixed 
forward.  They  sang  a  dismissal  hymn.  Perhaps  there 
were  some  who  really  praised  God,  from  Whom  all  bless 
ings  flow.  The  minister  raised  his  hands  in  that  bene 
diction  which  sent  them  all  away  full  of  a  sense  of  duty 
done,  albeit  a  trifle  guilty  as  to  that  moral  awakening 
regarding  which  the  minister  righteously  had  upbraided 
them. 

All  this  was  but  the  usual  and  regular  experience  of 
the  congregation.  To  this  woman,  this  outcast,  the  un 
conscious  object  of  the  wrath  so  lately  uttered  from  the 
pulpit,  it  had  been  a  great  and  gracious  experience.  Yes, 
she  said  to  herself,  she  had  been  one  of  these  others! 
She  was  within  sight  and  touch  of  other  women.  There 
were  boys  and  girls,  young  human  beings,  close  to  her, 
all  about  her.  And  nothing  had  happened  to  her  after 
all! 

Her  precious  words,  assimilated  rather  from  the  hymns 
than  from  the  sermon,  were  uppermost  in  her  con 
sciousness  as,  absorbed,  almost  unseeing,  she  stepped 
out  once  more  into  the  vestibule.  "All  ye  ...  All 
ye " 

Many  passed  her;  none  addressed  her;  a  few  drew 
aside  their  gowns  as  she  came  near.  All  stared.  A  sort 
of  commotion  therefore  existed  in  the  back  portion  of  the 

246 


AT  CHURCH 


vestibule  as  she  emerged.  The  eyes  of  many  young  men 
were  upon  her  boldly,  curiously,  insultingly,  perhaps — 
she  did  not  know. 

It  is  a  part  of  the  formula  of  village  life  in  such  a 
community  as  Spring  Valley,  for  the  young  men  thus 
lingering  in  the  vestibule  to  accost  the  maidens  of  their 
choice  as  they  emerge  from  the  body  proper  of  the  church 
building.  The  youth  steps  forward — preceding  any  rival 
if  he  may — removes  his  hat,  at  least  in  part,  and  having 
gained  the  maiden's  eye,  speaks  the  unvarying  phrase, 
"May  I  see  you  home  tonight?"  Whereupon  the  young 
lady,  smiling  if  favorably  disposed  to  him,  is  expected 
to  take  his  arm  in  sight  of  all ;  and  they  thus,  arm  in  arm, 
descend  the  eight  wooden  steps  to  the  sidewalk,  and  so 
walk  away  undisturbed.  Thus  there  gradually  ensues  a 
general  pairing  off  of  all.  The  swain  or  the  maid  left 
alone  is  not  rated  of  the  social  elect.  This  is  the  select 
ing  place  of  the  sexes,  far  more  than  the  sacred  parlor 
with  its  horsehair  chairs  and  its  album  midway  on  the 
table  of  the  marble  top. 

But  now,  as  the  little  assemblage  in  the  vestibule  dissi 
pated,  there  came  an  added  commotion,  not  at  the  rear, 
but  at  the  front  of  the  vestibule.  Someone  was  pushing 
on  inside  of  the  door — someone  who  apparently  did  not 
belong  there. 

It  was  the  half-witted  son  of  Ephraim  Adamson,  John, 
commonly  called  Johnnie,  the  idiot !  Why  he  had  come 

247 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


hither,  why  he  was  allowed  to  come,  none  might  say, 
nor  why  he  came  unattended  by  any  of  his  kin  as  was 
the  usual  custom.  But  none  molested  him.  A  bold  youth 
said  "Hello,  Johnnie,"  and  Johnnie  respectfully  took  off 
his  hat  to  him  with  an  amiable  grin.  They  would  have 
mocked  him  had  they  dared,  but  in  truth  none  knew  what 
to  do  with  him. 

When  Aurora  Lane  had  passed  in  part  the  gauntlet  of 
the  loitering  youths,  and  was  about  to  step  down  the  stair 
into  the  street,  she  felt  a  heavy  hand  fall  on  her  arm. 
Then  a  peal  of  laughter  rose  back  of  her — laughter  on 
the  threshold  of  the  church  itself.  For  what  the  half-wit 
did  was  what  he  had  seen  these  others  do.  Sidling  up  to 
her,  his  hat  off,  he  said,  "May  I  see — may  I  see  you  home 
this — this  evening?" 

This  was  accounted  the  greatest  jest,  the  most  unfail 
ingly  mirthful  thing  in  the  recountal,  ever  known  in  the 
annals  of  Spring  Valley. 

Aurora  Lane  started  back  from  him  in  sudden  shocked 
loathing,  swiftly  resentful  also  of  the  mocking  laughter 
that  she  heard  from  those  who  still  stood  within  the 
sanctuary.  Sanctuary?  Was  there  such  a  place  as  sanc 
tuary  for  her  in  all  the  world?  Was  there  any  place 
where  she  might  be  safe,  where  she  might  be  unmo 
lested? 

"Go  on  away !"  she  said  sharply,  and  would  have  hur 
ried  down  the  stair.  She  looked  this  way  and  that. 

248 


AT  CHURCH 


There  was  not  a  man  to  whom  she  might  appeal  as  her 
champion — not  one !    She  must  trust  herself. 

"Go  along!"  said  she.  But  actually  she  saw  tears  in 
the  eyes  of  the  half-witted  giant  now.  "No,  Johnnie; 
but  I'll  walk  with  you  with  these  others  as  far  as  the 
corner  of  the  square." 

"All  right,"  said  he.  "I'll  do— I'll  do  that/'  A  wide 
gap  opened  in  the  ranks  of  the  slow  procession  on  the 
sidewalk  now  as  these  two  joined  in.  Not  too  wide, 
however,  for  there  were  certain  ones  who  must  keep 
track  of  all  details  regarding  this  epochal  event. 

"Where  is  your  father,  Johnnie  ?"  asked  Aurora  Lane, 
quietly  and  distinctly,  so  that  all  might  hear. 

"He— he— I  don't— I  don't  know.  I  ain't— I  ain't  been 
home.  I'm  out !"  said  Johnnie. 

"You've  not  been  home  ?    What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Wasn't  there — wasn't  there  a  funer'l  for  somebody 
today?"  he  asked  mysteriously.  "I  can  whip  any  man  in 
Jackson  County.  My  pa  said  so.  We've — we've  done  it 
— we'd  done  it  then  if  he — if  he  hadn't  pitched  on  to  me. 
He  done  that." 

A  sudden  terror  caught  Aurora  Lane's  soul  as  she 
realized  that  the  addled  mind  of  this  half-wit  was  more 
than  to  a  usual  extent  gone  wrong.    She  feared  him  with 
every  fiber  in  her  body.    She  stepped  aside  quickly  as  he 
made  a  loutish  thrust  at  her  arm,  as  though  to  pinch  her. 
Til  pinch  you!"  said  he.    "You  know  why?" 
249 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"No,  don't !  Go  away !"  she  exclaimed,  and  pushed  out 
her  hand. 

"  'Cause— 'cause  I  like  you !"  said  the  half-wit.  "That' s 
why!" 

Then  for  a  time  those  who  crowded  up  at  the  rear 
heard  little,  until  he  resumed. 

"Oh,  I  know  a  lot  more  I  could  tell  you  some  time.  I 
ain't — I  ain't  been  home  at  all.  I'm  just  looking  round. 
Ain't  no  one  can  stop  me.  There  was  some  sort  of — of 
f uner'l,  wasn't  there,  in  town  today  ?  Me  and  my  father, 
we  can  lick  ary  two  men  in  Jackson  County." 

He  would  have  made  some  sort  of  rude  approach  once 
more.  But  now  even  the  tardy  chivalry  of  these  men  of 
Spring  Valley  came  back  to  them.  Two  or  three  stepped 
in  between  him  and  Aurora  Lane.  "Here,  you,"  said  the 
voice  of  one,  "that'll  do !  Quit  it  now." 

Aurora  Lane  did  not  have  time  to  thank  her  rescuers. 
The  painful  situation  was  relieved  suddenly.  Just  as 
they  were  turning  at  the  corner  of  the  public  square 
there  hurried  up  a  man,  an  oldish  man,  untidy  even  in 
his  Sunday  garb,  half  running  toward  the  group  which 
now  he  saw  approaching. 

"Hello,  Pa,"  exclaimed  the  half-wit,  and  laughed  long 
and  loud.  "I  didn't  come  home,"  said  he.  "I'm — I'm 
out!" 

The  sad  face  of  Ephraim  Adamson  was  seen  by  all,  as 
he  pushed  in  among  them  and  took  his  son  by  the  arm. 

250 


AT  CHURCH 


They  walked  away  briskly  now  together,  Johnnie  looking 
back  over  his  shoulder. 

But  now,  to  the  surprise  of  all — to  her  own  surprise 
as  well,  so  sudden  was  her  resolve — Aurora  Lane  hurried 
after  these  two. 

"Mr.  Adamson,"  said  she,  "wait,  don't  whip  him — I'm 
not  angry — I  understand." 

Adamson  halted  for  just  a  moment.  "He's  been  away 
all  day,"  said  he,  his  face  showing  no  Besentment  of  her 
presence.  "I  didn't  know  they  let  him  out  last  night — 
he  didn't  come  home.  I  began  looking  for  him  as  soon 
as  I  knew  he  was  out — I  thought  he  might  be  hiding  in 
the  fields — he  does  sometimes.  He  always  runs  away 
whenever  he  gets  a  chance.  I'm  sorry  if  he's  done  wrong 
— has  he  been  bad  to  you  ?" 

"I  understand  everything,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  Many 
heard  her  say  that.  "Don't  mind.  Tomorrow,  will  you 
both  be  in  town  ? — I  might  talk  to  you." 

"No,  Ma'am,"  said  Adamson  briefly.  "He  can't  come 
any  more.  I  may  be  here.  What  do  you  want  of  me — 
after  what  I've  said — after  what  I've  done  to  you  ?  And 
here  you  come  and  bring  him  back  to  me." 

His  own  face  showed  whitish  blue  in  the  flicker  of  the 
great  arc  light. 

"Ma'am,"  he  went  on  again,  "there's  a  lot  about  you — 
you're  some  woman  after  all.  Where  have  you  been — 
at  church?" 

251 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Yes,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  "I  was  at  church." 

"I  ain't  been  there  in  years,"  said  Eph  Adamson  sadly. 

"Neither  have  I,"  rejoined  Aurora  Lane,  "twenty 
years,  I  think — perhaps  more." 

He  gazed  at  her  now  out  of  his  old,  bleared,  sad  eyes. 
"I  wouldn't  of  been  here  now  but  for  what's  happened," 
said  he.  "Already  I  was  sad — and  I  was  drunk  before 
I  was.  And  I  was — well,  I  felt  like  I  was  a  rebel,  that 
was  all,  yesterday.  That  boy  of  yours  looked  so  fine,  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  Look  at  mine !  I  done  wrong,  Ma'am. 
I  said  what  I  had  no  right  to  say.  I'm  sorry,  clean 
through — with  all  my  heart  I'm  sorry  for  what  I  done 
yesterday." 

She  made  no  answer  to  him,  and  he  went  on.  "It 
seems  like  some  folks  was  sort  of  born  under  a  cloud, 
don't  it?  I'm  one  of  them,  I  reckon.  All  this  has  been 
my  fault.  I'm  sorry  as  I  can  be.  Can't  you  forgive  me, 
Miss  Lane,  can't  you  forgive  me  any?" 

"You  didn't  hear  the  anthem,"  said  Aurora  Lane,  "be 
cause  you  were  not  in  church.  It  said  'Whosoever/  It 
said  'All  ye/  " 

"In  some  ways,"  said  Eph  Adamson  slowly — they  had 
been  for  some  time  quite  apart  from  the  others,  walking 
on  slowly — "it  seems  like  you  and  me  was  living  our 
lives  pretty  much  alike,  don't  it,  Miss  Lane?  It's  funny, 
ain't  it — we  hadn't  either  of  us  been  to  church — not  in 
twenty  years !" 

252 


AT  CHURCH 


None  the  less,  as  of  old,  these  others  passed  by  upon 
the  other  side,  and  left  unattended  those  whose  wounds 
were  grievous. 

At  the  corner  of  her  street  Aurora  Lane  paused. 
"Good-by,  Mr.  Adamson,"  said  she.  "Good  night.  I 
don't  want  to  be  unjust  to  anyone.  I'm  going  to  try  not 
to  blame  you — I'd  like  to  forgive  all  the  world  if  I  could. 
I'm  in  great  trouble  now." 

He  broke  out  in  a  sullen  rage.  "Forgive?  Do  that  if 
you  can,"  said  he.  "I  can't.  Maybe  a  woman  can — but 
forgiving  ain't  in  my  line.  Well,  I'd  give  anything  I 
could  in  the  world  if  I  hadn't  said  what  I  did  yesterday 
right  there  on  the  public  square.  All  this  has  come  out  of 
that — this  whole  trouble.  You're  different  from  what 
I  thought.  You're  a  good  woman.  I  take  off  my  hat 
to  you." 

"I  take  off  my  hat  to  you,"  mowed  the  idiot  also,  imi 
tating  what  he  saw  and  heard.  .  .  .  "May  I  see  you 
home — may  I  see  you  home  tonight?  I'm — I'm  out — I 
was  out  all  last  night.  They  can't  pitch  on  us.  Whip 
any  man  in  Jackson  County.  Good  night — good  night, 
Ma'am.  I'm  sorry — I'm  sorry,  too." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 

NEITHER  Judge  Henderson  nor  his  ward  attended 
church  services  this  Sunday  evening,  the  former 
because  of  a  certain  physical  reaction  which  dis 
posed  him  to  slumber,  the  latter  because  she  had  other 
plans  of  her  own.  The  great  white  house,  with  its  wide 
flanking  grounds,  where  Judge  Henderson  had  so  long 
lived  in  somewhat  solitary  state,  was  now  lighted  up 
from  top  to  bottom;  but  presently  a  light  in  an  upper 
window  vanished. 

Anne  Oglesby  tiptoed  down  the  stair  side  by  side  with 
the  housekeeper.  She  cast  a  glance  of  inquiry  into  the 
front  parlor,  where,  prone  upon  a  large  couch,  was 
Judge  Henderson — rendering  audible  tribute  to  Mor 
pheus. 

"He's  violating  the  town  ordinance  about  the  muffler 
cut-out/'  said  Anne  smilingly  to  the  housekeeper.  "Oh, 
don't  wake  him — I'll  be  back  presently — tell  him." 

She  hurried  through  the  yard  and  down  the  street 
toward  the  central  part  of  the  town.  The  streets  about 
the  square  now  were  well-nigh  deserted,  since  most  folk 
were  in  the  churches.  Her  own  destination  was  a  square 

254 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


or  two  beyond  the  courthouse,  where  stood  another  brick 
building  of  public  interest;  in  short,  the  county  jail. 

It  was  the  duty  of  the  sheriff  to  care  for  the  tenants 
of  his  jail,  and  he  made  his  own  home  in  a  part  of  the 
brick  building  which  served  in  that  capacity — a  small 
building  with  iron  grates  on  the  lower  windows,  arranged 
at  about  the  height  of  a  man's  eyes  as  he  would  stand 
within  on  the  cement  floor  of  a  cell,  so  that  he  might 
look  out  just  above  the  greensward,  his  face  visible  to 
any  who  passed  by.  Many  a  boy  had  thus  gazed  with 
horror  on  the  unshaven  face  of  some  ruffian  who  begged 
him  for  tobacco,  or  some  tramp  who  had  trifled  too  long 
with  the  patience  of  the  community,  usually  so  generous 
with  its  alms.  Many  a  school  child  could  show  you  the 
very  place  where  the  woman  who,  killed  her  children  was* 
confined  before  they  took  her  away — could  point  out  the 
very  window  where  she  stood  looking  and  weeping  and 
wringing  her  hands — "Just  like  this" — as  any  child  would 
tell  you. 

And  some  day  perhaps  children  would  point  out  this 
very  window  where  now  stood  looking  out,  motionless — 
"Not  saying  a  word  to  nobody" — the  "man  who  killed 
the  city  marshal."  Don  Lane  was  standing  at  his  grated 
window  and  looking  out  when  Anne  Oglesby  crossed  the 
grass  plot  and  came  up  the  brick  sidewalk,  fenced  in  by 
chains  supported  on  little  iron  posts,  which  led  to  the 
jail's  iron-bound  door. 

255 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


His  heart  gave  a  great  leap.  He  saw  her.  She  was 
coming  to  him — the  one  faithful,  his  beloved !  Not  even 
Miss  Julia — not  even  his  mother — had  come,  but  here  was 
Anne! 

But  at  the  next  instant  he  stepped  back  from  the  win 
dow,  hoping  that  she  would  not  gain  admission.  Shame, 
deep  and  unspeakable,  additional  shame,  two-fold  shame, 
compassed  him  as  soon  as  he  reflected.  The  bitterest  of 
all  was  the  fact  that  he  must  yield  her  up  forever.  He 
must  tell  her  why.  And  now  she  had  come — to  see  him 
in  a  cell !  It  was  here  that  he  must  break  his  heart,  and 
hers. 

Sheriff  Cowles  opened  the  door  when  Anne  Oglesby 
rang  the  bell.  He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  out  into 
the  twilight. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked.  Then  he  recognized  the  girl 
whom  he  had  brought  down  town  from  the  railway  sta 
tion  in  his  car  that  morning.  Anne  Oglesby  was  not  a 
person  easily  to  be  forgotten. 

"You  know  who  I  am,  Mr.  Cowles,"  said  she — "I  am 
Miss  Oglesby,  Judge  Henderson's  ward.  I'm — I  am  re 
spectable." 

"Yes,"  said  Cowles,  "I  know  that,  but  why  are  you 
here?" 

"Because  I'd  not  be  respectable  if  I  were  not  here," 
she  said  quietly.  "You  probably  know." 

"Does  the  Judge  know  you  have  come  ?" 

256 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


"No,  he  wouldn't  have  let  me  come  if  he  had  known. 
I  want  to  see  him — that  young  man,  you  know/'  Her 
own  color  was  high  by  this  time. 

The  sheriff  hesitated.  "Well,"  said  he,  "I  don't  want 
to  do  anything  that  isn't  right,  anything  that  isn't  fair. 
I  reckon  I  know  how  you  feel." 

"We're  engaged  to  be  married,"  said  Anne  Oglesby 
simply,  and  looked  him  directly  in  the  face.  "That  gives 
me  some  rights,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"In  one  way,  maybe,  but  no  legal  rights,"  replied  the 
sheriff,  who  was  much  perplexed,  but  who  could  not 
escape  the  compelling  fact  of  Anne  Oglesby's  presence, 
the  compelling  charm  of  Anne  Oglesby  herself.  "He's 
not  really  committed  as  yet,  of  course,  only  bound  over 
by  the  coroner's  jury;  but  the  grand  jury  meets  tomor 
row,  and  they'll  indict  him  sure.  You  know  that.  I  can't 
take  any  chances  of  his  getting  away.  I  have  to  be 
sure." 

"Your  wife  may  come  with  me,"  said  Anne  Oglesby. 
"It's  my  right  to  talk  to  him  a  little  while,  don't  you 
think?  I'm  not  going  to  try  to  get  him  out  He  hasn't 
had  anyone  to  help  him — he  hasn't  had  any  legal 
counsel." 

"Who'd  he  send  for,  anyway?"  asked  the  sheriff. 
"He's  a  sort  of  a  waif,  isn't  he — her  boy?  I  suppose 
you've  heard  about  him  fighting  here  around  town  yes 
terday?" 

257 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"I  don't  know  why  he  fought,  but  I  know  that  if  he 
did  he  had  cause.  I  hope  he  fought  well." 

"They  said  it  was  about  his  mother,"  began  Sheriff 
Cowles.  "Some  word  about  her  was  passed " 

"You  needn't  say  any  more,"  said  Anne  Oglesby. 

"He  hasn't  told  me  to  send  for  any  lawyer  for  him," 
said  Cowles.  "It  don't  seem  like  he's  thought  of  it. 
He's  just  sort  of  quiet — mighty  still  all  the  time.  Ha- 
hum! — I  don't  know  what  to  say  about  your  seeing 
him.  Why  didn't  you  ask  your  uncle,  Judge  Hender 
son?" 

"Don't  call  him  my  uncle,"  said  Anne  Oglesby.  "He's 
only  my  guardian  in  law.  I've  just  told  you  he  wouldn't 
let  me  come.  That's  why  I've  got  to  hurry." 

"Well,"  hesitated  the  sheriff,  "I'll  have  to  warn  you 
not  to  talk  about  this  case  where  I  can  hear  it.  I'll  have 
to  hear  all  you  say." 

"Would  you  like  to  do  that?" 

The  sheriff  flushed.  "No,"  said  he,  "not  special;  but 
you  see  my  own  duty  is  right  clear.  I  can't  play  any 
favorites.  If  you  was  his  lawyer,  now,  it  might  be  dif 
ferent." 

"I  am  his  lawyer,  the  only  one  he's  got  so  far  as  I 
know." 

"Yes,  I  reckon  the  judge  wouldn't  care  to  take  his 
case."  The  sheriff  wagged  his  head.  "He's  no  ways 
rich — not  beyond  four  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  and 

258 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


a  pocket  knife  and  some  keys  on  a  ring.    He's  broke,  all 
right." 

"He's  never  been  anything  else,"  said  Anne  Oglesby, 
hotly.  "He's  never  had  a  chance.  Do  you  want  to  keep 
a  man  from  his  chance  all  his  life — do  you  want  to  help 
railroad  him  to  the  gallows  ?  That's  for  the  courts,  not 
for  you.  Do  you  want  to  hang  a  man — are  you  anxious 
to  begin  that?" 

Cowles'  face  grew  pale.  "God  knows  I  don't!  I 
never  done  that  in  my  life,  and  I  don't  want  to  have  to, 
neither.  Don't  talk  about  that  to  me,  Miss." 

"Then  don't  talk  to  me  any  more  about  those  other 
things.  I  give  you  my  word  I'll  not  try  to  get  him  out, 
but  I  want  to  see  him — I  must  see  him — he'll  want  to  see 
me.  Don't  you  know — we've — we've  just  begun  to  be 
engaged." 

"Some  things  I  can't  understand  no  ways,"  pondered 
Sheriff  Cowles.  "He's  nobody,  so  far  as  I  can  learn. 
You're  the  Judge's  ward — why,  you're  rich,  they  say." 

"I'd  give  every  cent  I  have  to  see  him  walk  out  right 
now.  I  suppose  you  were  young  once  yourself.  Were 
you  ever  in  love,  Mr.  Cowles  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  sheriff,  slowly.  "I  was — I  am  yet, 
some.  I  can  remember  back.  I  don't  believe  I  ought  to 
let  you  in.  But  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to,  because  you  are 
young — like  we  all  was  once — and  because  you're  in  love. 
Did  anyone  see  you  coming  over  here  ?" 

259 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"I  don't  know ;  but  all  the  town  knows  about  him  and 
me.  Well,  let  them." 

"You  must  promise  not  to  help  him  in  any  way  to  get 
out — not  to  do  anything  you  hadn't  ought  to  do,  nor 
against  the  law." 

"I  give  you  my  promise,"  said  Anne  Oglesby. 

Without  more  speech  the  sheriff  turned  and  led  the 
way  down  the  stone-paved  hall  to  the  short  cement  stairs 
which  made  down  upon  the  half-floor  below,  at  the  level 
of  the  cells.  He  turned  the  switch  of  an  electric  light, 
so  that  they  might  see  the  better  in  the  hall. 

There  was  but  one  tenant,  and  from  beyond  his  door 
there  came  no  sound,  not  even  when  Cowles  unlocked 
the  iron-shod  door  and  stood,  his  revolver  easy  at  his 
belt. 

As  Anne  entered  she  saw  Don  Lane  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  narrow  pallet,  looking  at  the  door.  He  had  not 
risen.  He  had  been  sitting  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

He  groaned  now.  "My  God!"  said  he.  "Anne! 
What  made  you  come  ?" 

The  sheriff  stepped  within  the  door  at  the  side  of  Anne 
Oglesby.  "I'd  stay  about  ten  minutes  or  so  if  I  was 
you,"  said  he,  and  tried  to  look  unconscious  and  imper 
sonal. 

Don  Lane  rose  now,  but  stood  still  apart. 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Don?"  asked  Anne,  stepping 
closer  to  him.  "Didn't  you  know  I'd  come  ?" 

260 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


She  reached  out  her  hands  to  him,  and  he  caught  both 
of  them  in  his. 

"I  ought  to  have  known  you  would,"  said  he,  "and  I 
know  you  oughtn't  to.  It  makes  it  very  hard.  I  said 
good-by  to  you — this  morning — today." 

"Won't  you  kiss  me — again,  Don?"  asked  Anne 
Oglesby. 

He  kissed  her  again,  his  face  white. 

"It's  hard  to  know  you  for  so  little  a  while,"  said  he, 
his  young  face  drawn,  his  voice  trembling — "awfully 
hard.  What  time  there's  left  to  me— I'll  have  it  all  to 
remember  you.  But  we  must  never  meet  after  this. 
It's  over." 

"Don,  if  I  thought  it  was  all  over,  do  you  suppose  I'd 
let  you  kiss  me  now?" 

"It's  like  heaven,"  said  he.  "It's  all  I'll  have  to  re 
member." 

"A  long  time,  Don — a  very  long  time !" 

"I  can't  tell.  They  are  not  apt  to  lose  much  time  with 
my  case.  The  only  crime  of  my  life  was  in  ever  lifting 
my  eyes  to  you,  Anne.  Oh,  you  know  I'd  never  have 
done  that  if  I  had  known — what  I  found  out  yesterday. 
But  then  I've  said  good-by  to  you." 

"I  didn't  say  good-by,  Don !" 

He  half  raised  a  hand,  shaking  his  head  sadly.  "You 
must  forget  me,  no  matter  what  happens — no  matter 
whether  I  am  cleared  or  not.  I'll  never  be  the  coward 

261 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


to  ask  you  to  remember  me — that  wouldn't  be  right. 
I'm  beyond  all  hope,  whichever  way  it  goes." 

"I've  come  tonight,  Don,"  said  she,  quietly,  "to  see 
about  your  lawyer." 

He  half  laughed.  "There'll  be  small  need  for  one,  and 
if  there  were  I've  got  no  funds.  It  will  take  a  lot  of 
money." 

"Well,  what  of  that?  I've  got  a  lot  of  money.  My 
guardian  told  me  so  today.  I'm  worth  somewhere  be 
tween  a  quarter  and  a  half  million  dollars  anyway — I'm 
not  rich — but  that  would  help  us." 

He  laughed  at  this  harshly.  "I  didn't  know  you  had 
any  money  at  all.  And  you  think  I'd  be  coward  enough 
to  take  your  money  to  get  out  of  here — after  what  I 
have  learned  about  myself  since  yesterday?  Do  you 
suppose  I'd  take  my  life  from  you — such  a  life  as  it's  got 
to  be  now  ?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Don? — you  won't  let  me  go, 
will  you?  You  don't  mean "  She  stepped  to 
ward  him,  in  sudden  terror  of  his  resolution.  "Why, 
Don!" 

"Yes,  yes.  I  spent  all  the  afternoon  here  alone  trying 
to  think.  Well,  I  won't  compromise.  I  never  meant  to 
pull  you  into  this — I'll  not  let  you  be  dragged  into  it  by 
your  own  great-heartedness.  But,  Anne,  Anne,  dearest, 
dearest,  surely  you  know  that  when  I  spoke  to  you  yes 
terday  I  didn't  know  what  I  know  today!  I  thought  I 

262 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


had  a  father.  You  know  I'd  not  deceive  you — you  do 
know  that?" 

There  was  a  shuffle  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  cell. 
Sheriff  Cowles,  coughing  loudly,  was  turning  away  from 
them.  A  moment  later  the  door  closed  behind  him. 
"Ha-hum!"  said  he  to  himself  outside  the  door.  "Oh, 
hell!  I  wish't  I  wasn't  sher'ff." 

They  were  alone.  With  the  door  closed  the  cell  was 
dark,  save  for  the  twilight  filtering  through  the  barred 
windows  high  up  along  the  wall. 

Anne  came  closer  to  him  and  put  her  hands  upon  his 
shoulders.  "Oh,  Don,"  said  she,  "it's  hard,  awfully  hard, 
isn't  it,  to  start  with  such  a  handicap  ?  But  when  did  all 
the  men  in  the  world  start  even?  And  is  it  always  the 
one  who  starts  first  that  finishes  best  ?  Don,  you  played 
the  game  in  college — so  did  I — we've  both  got  to  play  the 
game  now !  We'll  have  to  take  our  handicap.  But  you 
mustn't  talk  about  sending  me  away.  I  can't  stand  every 
thing.  Oh,  don't!  I  can't  stand  that!"  Her  voice  was 
choking  now.  She  was  sobbing,  striving  not  to  do  so. 

He  caught  her  wrists  in  his  hands,  as  her  hands  still 
lay  upon  his  shoulders ;  but  he  did  not  draw  her  to  him. 

"Anne,"  said  he,  "the  time  comes  in  every  man's  life 
for  him  to  die.  I  heard  once  about  a  man  who  could  not 
swim  and  who  saw  his  wife  drown  in  the  stream  by  him, 
almost  at  his  side.  He  ran  along  and  shouted,  and  said 
he  could  not  swim.  Well,  he  lived.  The  woman  died. 

263 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Suppose  that  had  been  our  case.  If  we  both  went  down 
together,  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad,  perhaps.  But  I'll  not 
have  my  life  as  that  sort  of  a  gift." 

"You  won't  let  me  help  you,  Don  ?" 

"No!  I  won't  let  you  have  anything  to  do  with  me! 
I'll  never  allow  your  name  to  come  on  my  lips,  and  you 
must  never  think  of  mentioning  mine!  Only — Anne, 
Anne — surely  you  don't  think  I  had  any  idea  before  yes 
terday — about  my  father?  I  wouldn't  buy  my  own  hap 
piness  at  that  price.  I'm  no  one's  son.  I'm  dead,  and 
doubly  dead.  But  I  never  knew." 

"No,"  said  she,  "I  know  you  did  not — I  know  you 
would  not." 

They  both  were  so  young,  as  they  talked  on  now, 
wisely,  soberly. 

"So  you  are  free,"  he  said,  casting  away  her  hands 
from  him,  and  standing  back.  "You  never  were  anything 
but  free." 

"I'll  never  be  free  again,  Don,"  said  she,  shaking  her 
head.  "You  kissed  me !  I'm  not  a  girl  any  more — I'm  a 
woman  now.  I  can't  go  back.  And  now  you  tell  me  to 
go  away !  Don't  you  love  me,  Don  ?  Why,  I  love  you — 
so  much !" 

"My  God,  don't!"  he  groaned.  "Don't!  I  can't  stand 
everything.  But  I  can't  take  anything  but  the  best  and 
truest  sort  of  love." 

"Isn't  mine?" 

264 


AT  THE  COUNTY  JAIL 


"No.  It's  pity,  maybe — I  can't  tell.  This  is  no  place 
for  us  to  talk  of  that  now.  You  must  go  away.  I  hope 
you  will  forget  you  ever  saw  me.  I  don't  even  know  my 
father's  name — I  don't  know  whether  he  is  living — I 
don't  know  anything !  I  have  been  walled  in  all  my  life 
— I'm  walled  in  now.  I  never  ought  to  have  touched 
even  the  hem  of  your  garment,  for  I  wasn't  fit.  But  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"That's  the  trouble,"  said  Anne.  "I  can't  help  it,  either." 

"Ah!"  he  half  groaned,  "you  ought  to  be  kept  from 
yourself." 

"Kept  from  myself,  Don?  If  that  were  true  of  all 
the  women  in  the  world,  how  much  world  would  there 
be  left?  That's  why  I'm  here— why,  Don,  I  had  to  come !" 

"Anne!  It  can't  be.  It's  only  cruel  for  you  to  tear 
me  up  by  coming  here — by  staying  here — by  standing 
here.  I  love  you!  Anne!  Anne!  I  don't  see  how 
it  could  be  hard  as  this  for  any  man  to  part  from 
any  woman."  He  was  trembling  through  all  his  strong 
frame  now. 

"But  we  promised !" 

"The  law  says  that  a  promise  is  such  only  when  two 
minds  meet.  Our  minds  never  met — I  didn't  know  the 
facts — you  didn't  know  about  me — we  have  just  found 
out  about  it  now." 

"Our  minds  didn't  meet?"  said  Anne  Oglesby.  "Our 
minds?  Did  not  our  hearts  meet — don't  they  meet  now 

265 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


— and  isn't  that  what  it  all  means  between  a  man  and 
a  woman?" 

He  stood,  trembling,  apart  from  her  in  the  twilight. 

"Don't !"  he  whispered.  "I  love  you !  I  will  love  you 
all  my  life!  You  must  go  away.  Oh,  go  now,  go 
quickly  I" 

A  merciful  footfall  sounded  on  the  stone  floor  of  the 
outer  hall.  The  door  opened,  letting  in  a  shaft  of  light 
with  it.  Cowles  stood  hesitating,  looking  at  the  two 
young  people,  still  separated,  standing  wretchedly. 

"I  hate  to  say  anything,"  said  the  sheriff,  "but  I 
reckon " 

"She  must  go,"  said  Don  Lane.  "Take  her  away. 
Good-by — Anne  !  Anne !  Oh,  good-by !" 

"Won't  you  kiss  me,  Don?"  said  Anne  Oglesby — 
"when  I  love  you  so  much?" 

There  were  four  tears,  two  great,  sudden  drops  from 
each  eye,  that  sprang  now  on  Dan  Cowles'  wrinkled, 
sunburned  cheeks. 

But  Don  Lane  had  cast  himself  down  once  more  on 
the  pallet  and  was  trying  with  all  his  power  to  be  silent 
until  after  she  had  gone. 

"In  some  ways,"  said  Dan  Cowles  to  his  wife  later 
that  night,  "he's  got  me  guessing,  that  young  fellow. 
He  don't  act  like  no  murderer  to  me.  But  since  she 
left,  and  since  all  this  here  happened,  he's  wild — Lord! 
he's  wild!" 

266 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  MOB 

ANNE  OGLESBY  left  the  jail  shortly  after  the 
time  when  church  services  were  ending.  As  she 
hurried  by  Aurora  Lane's  house  in  Mulberry 
Street  she  saw  a  light  shining  from  the  windows,  but 
she  did  not  enter — she  could  not  have  spoken  to  anyone 
now. 

She  evaded  any  meeting  with  her  guardian  after 
she  had  made  her  way  back  home.  Judge  Henderson 
had  not  known  of  her  absence  and  was  not  aware  of 
her  return.  Anne  thus  by  a  certain  period  of  time 
missed  seeing  what  Dan  Cowles  presently  saw. 

It  was  noticeable  that  Sabbath  day  that  more  than 
the  usual  number  of  fanners'  wagons  remained  in  town, 
quite  past  the  time  when  the  country  church  members 
usually  started  back  for  their  homes.  The  farmers 
seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry,  even  although  they  had  seen 
a  double  church  service.  There  was  something  rest 
less,  something  vague,  disturbing,  over  the  town.  A 
number  of  townsmen  also  seemed  impelled  to  walk  back 
toward  the  public  square.  Some  strange  indefinite  sum 
mons  drew  them  thither.  Little  knots  of  men  stood  here 

267 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


and  there.  Groups  of  women  gathered  at  this  or  that 
gallery  front. 

No  one  knows  the  point  where  in  vague  public  thought 
a  general  resolution  actually  begins.  The  ripple  in  the 
pool  spreads  widely  when  a  stone  is  cast.  What  chance 
word,  or  what  deliberate  resolve,  may  have  started  the 
slowly  growing  resolution  of  Spring  Valley  may  not 
be  known;  but  now  a  sort  of  stealthy  silence  fell  over 
the  village  as  groups  gathered  here  and  there,  speaking 
cautiously,  in  low  tones. 

A  knot  of  men  stood  near  the  corner  of  the  square 
looking  down  the  street  to  the  light  which  shone  red 
from  the  shaded  window  of  Aurora  Lane. 

"I  know  what  was  done  right  in  this  here  town  thirty 
year  ago,"  said  one  high  pitched  voice.  "It  was  old 
Eph  Adamson's  father  that  led  them,  too.  Them  was 
days  when " 

"Why  ain't  Eph  in  town  today  ?"  asked  another  voice. 
"I  seen  considerable  of  his  neighbors  around  in  town 
today." 

"He  was,  a  while  back,"  said  someone. 

"That  must  have  been  about  a  hour  ago,"  said  some 
other,  looking  about  furtively  at  the  faces  of  his 
neighbors. 

"Let's  take  a  stroll  over  towards  the  open  lots  near 
the  jail,"  suggested  someone  else. 

So,  following  the  first  to  start  with  definite  purpose, 

268 


THE  MOB 


little  straggling  groups  passed  on  beyond  the  corner 
of  the  square,  beyond  the  jail  itself,  to  a  sort  of  open 
space  not  yet  encroached  upon  by  public  or  private 
buildings. 

There  was  no  shouting,  no  loud  talking.  The  light 
was  dim.  The  crowd  itself  moved  vaguely,  milling  about, 
like  cattle  restive  and  ready  to  stampede,  but  not  yet 
determined  on  their  course. 

"God!  Did  you  hear  that  music  this  afternoon — 
they're  done  a-buryin'  poor  old  Joel  Tarbush  by  now, 
but  I  can  hear  it  yet,  seems  to  me!  Now,  what  had 
poor  old  Joel  ever  done — all  his  life — to  deserve  bein' 
murdered  like  a  dog?  It  makes  my  blood  sort  of  rise 
up  to  think  of  that.  Now,  them  that  done  that — them 
that  was  back  of  that " 

His  friend,  accosted,  nodded  grimly,  his  mouth  was 
shut  tight  and  turned  down  deep  at  the  corners. 

There  did  not  lack  one  or  two  willing  at  least  to 
talk  further.  One  was  a  young  man,  rather  well  dressed, 
apparently  fresh  from  church.  He  spoke  to  any  who 
would  listen. 

"What  I  mean  to  say,  men,  is  this,"  said  he,  "we've 
got  to  do  something  to  clean  up  this  town.  It's  the  people 
that's  behind  the  law  anyhow.  Am  I  right?" 

"He  talks  like  a  lawyer — what  he  says  is  pretty  true," 
said  one  farmer  to  another. 

"That  was  a  strong  sermon  our  minister  preached  to- 

269 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


night,"  said  yet  another.  "He  said  we'd  have  to  stamp 
out  crime  and  make  a  warnin'.  The  preacher  e'en- 
a'most  pointed  out  what  we  ought  to  do." 

".  .  .  We'd  ought  to  make  a  clean  sweep  of  this  whole 
family,"  said  the  same  young  man,  more  boldly  now. 
"They're  a  bad  lot— both  her  son  and  her." 

".  .  .  We  could  break  into  the  jail  easy,"  said  some 
one,  after  a  time.  "Cowles  couldn't  keep  us  from  it 
Maybe  he  wouldn't  want  to." 

".  .  .  The  trouble  is,"  resumed  the  voice  of  the  young 
man  who  had  earlier  spoken,  "it's  hard  to  make  a  law 
case  stick.  We've  seen  how  that  worked  out  in  the 
trial  yesterday — he  came  clear — they  dropped  the  case, 
and  nothing  was  done.  Old  Eph  Adamson  had  to  take 
all  the  medicine.  But  we  ought  to  take  our  place  as 
a  law-abiding  community — I've  always  said  that." 

"And  God-fearin',"  said  a  devout  voice. 

"Yes,  a  God-fearing  community !  It's  been  twenty 
years  now  that  that  woman  has  flaunted  her  vice  in 
the  face  of  this  community." 

"Ain't  a  man  in  this  town  that  don't  know  about  her — 
it's  just  sort  o'  quieted  down,  that's  all,"  said  a  gray- 
bearded,  peak-chinned  man  grimly;  which  was  more  or 
less  true,  as  more  than  one  man  present  knew,  himself 
not  guiltless  enough  of  heart  at  least  to  cast  the  first 
stone  at  Aurora  Lane. 

"In  the  old  times,"  grinned  one  stoutish  man,  chew- 

270 


THE  MOB 


ing  tobacco  and  speaking  to  a  neighbor  who  held  a  hand 
cupped  at  his  ear,  "the  folks  wouldn't  of  stood  it. 
They'd  just  'a'  had  a  little  feather  party.  They  rid 
such  people  out  of  town  on  a  rail  them  days — that's 
what  they  done.  And  they  didn't  never  come  back  after 
that — never  in  the  world.  As  for  a  murderer — they 
made  a  eend  of  him!" 

"And  so  could  we  make  a  eend  of  it  all  right  now, 
this  very  night,  if  we  had  a  little  sand,"  said  another 
voice. 

For  a  time  all  these  speakers  fell  silent,  seeking  re 
solve,  waiting  for  an  order,  a  command.  But  as  they 
became  silent  they  grew  more  uneasy.  They  broke 
ground,  shifted,  milled  about,  still  like  cattle.  Then 
head  was  laid  to  head,  beard  wagged  to  beard  again. 

And  then,  all  at  once,  it  broke! 

"Come  on,  boys!"  cried  a  loud  voice  at  last — not  that 
of  the  young  man  who  first  had  spoken — not  that  of 
any  of  these  others  speakers  who  had  hesitated,  lacking 
courage  of  definite  sort.  "Come  on!  Who's  with  me?' 

The  town  of  Spring  Valley  never  mentioned  the  name 
of  this  speaker.  The  report  got  out  in  a  general  way 
that  he  was  a  farmer  who  lived  a  few  miles  out  in 
the  country.  Indeed,  sympathy  for  Ephraim  Adam- 
son's  bad  fortune  in  this  case  was  no  doubt  largely  at 
the  bottom  of  this  affair  tonight — along  with  these  other 
things;  sympathy  for  Tarbush;  the  sermons  of  the 

271 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


preachers;  the  emotional  spell  of  the  dirge  music,  still 
lingering  on  these  crude  souls.  No  mob  reasons.  It 
was  plain  that  most  of  the  men,  though  not  all,  were 
farmers.  But  now  they  all  fell  in  behind  the  leader  as 
he  started,  a  motley  procession.  Some  folded  handker 
chiefs  and  tied  them  about  their  faces.  Yet  others  re 
versed  their  coats,  wearing  them  with  the  linings  out 
side.  Others  pulled  their  hats  down  over  their  eyes. 

Their  feet,  although  not  keeping  time,  none  the  less 
caught  a  ragged  unison,  in  a  sound  which  could  have 
been  heard  at  a  considerable  distance.  Dan  Cowles  heard 
it  now,  and  came  to  the  door  of  the  county  jail.  As 
he  saw  the  crowd,  he  drew  a  long  breath. 

"They're  coming  here!"  said  he  to  himself  at  length. 
"I  reckon  they'll  try  to  get  him.  I'll  hold  him  anyways, 
and  they  know  that."  Quickly  he  darted  back  into  the 
jail. 

The  procession  debouched  at  the  edge  of  the  jail  yard 
square,  halted  for  a  moment,  then  came  on  steadily,  be 
cause  someone  at  their  head  walked  steadily.  Perhaps 
there  were  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  of  them  in  all. 
Most  of  them  were  neighbors,  nearly  every  man  knew 
who  was  his  neighbor  here,  even  in  the  darkness.  Not 
one  of  these  could  precisely  have  told  why  he  was  here. 
By  some  process  of  self-persuasion,  some  working  of 
hysteria,  some  general  acceptance  of  the  auto-suggestion 
of  the  mob,  most  had  persuaded  themselves  that  they 

272 


THE  MOB 


were  there  to  "do  their  duty."  It  sounded  well.  If, 
indeed,  they  had  been  brought  hither  merely  by  the 
excitement  of  it,  merely  under  the  hypnosis  of  it,  they 
forgot  that,  or  tried  to  forget  it,  and  said  they  were  there 
to  do  their  duty — their  duty  to  their  God-fearing  town. 
.  .  .  But  in  the  mind  of  each  was  a  picture  out  of  the 
past  of  which  we  may  not  inquire.  That  night  far  worse 
than  murder  might  have  been  done. 

'We  want  him,  Dan.  Bring  him  out !"  The  voice  of 
the  leader  sounded  dry  and  hoarse,  but  he  did  not  waver, 
for  he  saw  the  sheriff  make  no  move  of  resistance. 

"You  can't  get  him,"  said  Dan  Cowles.  "You  couldn't 
even  if  he  was  here.  But  he  ain't  here." 

"What  do  you  mean,  he  ain't  here  ?    We  know  he  is !" 

"Come  in  and  see,"  said  Cowles,  stepping  back.  "I 
just  been  to  his  cell  and  he  ain't  there.  Come  in  and 
search  the  whole  jail." 

They  did  come  in  and  search  the  jail,  piling  into 
the  corridors,  opening  every  door,  looking  into  every 
room  even  of  the  sheriff's  living  quarters,  but  the  jail 
was  empty!  There  was  no  prisoner  there  at  all. 

"We  want  Don  Lane,  that  killed  the  city  marshal," 
repeated  the  husky  voice  of  the  leader  once  more. 
"Where  is  he?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Sheriff  Cowles.  "If  I  did,  I 
wouldn't  tell  you."  And  indeed  he  spoke  only  truth 
in  both  these  statements. 

273 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"I  know  I"  screamed  a  high  voice  in  the  middle  of  the 
man  pack.  "He's  maybe  up  at  her  house — 'Rory  Lane's. 
Let's  go  search  the  place — we'll  get  him  yet!" 

It  was  enough.  The  mob,  thus  resisted,  disappointed, 
began  to  mutter,  to  talk  now,  in  a  low,  hoarse  half  roar 
of  united  voices.  They  turned  away  on  a  new  trail. 
Some  broke  into  shouts  as  they  began  to  hurry  down 
the  brick  walk  of  the  jail  yard.  They  jostled  and 
crowded  in  the  street,  as  they  came  into  the  corner 
of  the  public  square.  A  general  outcry  arose  as  they 
caught  sight  of  the  light  in  the  window  of  Aurora 
Lane's  little  home,  a  half  block  down  the  street,  beyond 
the  corner  of  the  square. 

Aurora  heard  the  sound  of  their  feet  coming  down 
the  sidewalk.  She  heard  the  noise  at  her  gate — heard  the 
crash  as  the  gate  was  kicked  off  its  new-mended  hinges 
— heard  the  men  crowd  up  her  little  walk,  heard  their 
feet  clumping  on  the  little  gallery  floor.  Her  heart 
stopped.  She  stood  white-faced,  her  hands  clasped. 
What  was  it?  What  did  they  mean?  Were  they  going 
to  kill  her  boy?  Had  they  killed  him?  Were  they 
going  to  tell  her  that?  Were  they  going  to  kill  her, 
too? 

"Come  on  out!"  she  heard  someone  calling  to  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  must  go.  In  some  strange 
hypnosis,  her  feet  began  to  move,  unsanctioned  by  her 
volition.  .  .  .  She  stood  at  the  door  facing  them  all,  her 

274 


THE  MOB 


eyes  large,  her  face  showing  her  distress,  her  query, 
her  new  terror.  On  her  face  indeed  was  written  now 
the  whole  story  of  her  despair,  her  failure,  her  terrible 
unhappiness.  She  had  aged  by  years,  these  last  twenty- 
four  hours.  Now  sheer  terror  was  written  there  also. 
The  mob!  The  lynchers!  The  avengers!  What  had 
they  not  and  more  than  once  done  in  this  little  savage 
town?  ...  A  picture  rose  before  her  mind  ...  a  hor 
rible  picture  out  of  the  past.  Wide-eyed,  she  caught  at 
the  throat  of  her  gown,  caught  at  the  covering  of  her 
bosom — and  then  went  at  bay,  as  does  any  despairing 
creature  that  has  been  pressed  too  hard. 

She  looked  down  at  them.  Those  nearest  to  her  were 
masked.  Back  of  them  rose  groups  of  shoulders,  rough 
clad,  hats  pulled  down.  .  .  .  No,  she  did  not  know  one 
of  them;  she  did  not  recognize  even  a  face — or  was  not 
sure  she  had  done  so.  They  jostled  and  shifted  and 
pushed  forward. 

"No !  No !  Go  back !  Go  on  away !"  she  cried,  pale, 
her  eyes  starting.  And  again  she  called  aloud,  piteously, 
on  that  God  who  seemed  to  have  forsaken  her. 

"Come  on  out !"  cried  a  voice,  thick  and  husky.  "Come 
on  out,  and  hurry  up  about  it.  Bring  him  out — we  know 
he's  here.  We  want  Don  Lane,  and  we're  going  to  git 
him — or  we'll  git  you.  Damn  you,  look  out,  or  we'll 
git  you  both!  Where's  that  boy,  that  killed  the 
marshal  ?" 

275 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"He's  not  here,"  answered  Aurora,  in  a  voice  she 
would  not  have  known  to  be  her  own.  "I  don't  know 
where  he  is.  Believe  me,  if  he's  not  there  in  the  jail, 
I  don't  know  where  he  is.  What  do  you  want  of  him? 
He's  not  here — I  give  you  my  word  he's  not." 

She  still  stood,  near  the  door,  her  hands  clutching 
at  her  clothing,  a  mortal  terror  in  her  soul,  her  frail 
woman's  body  the  only  fence  now  for  her  home,  no 
longer  sanctuary. 

"You  lie!  We  know  he  is  here — he  ain't  in  the  jail. 
If  the  sher'f  let  him  out,  he'd  come  here.  You've  got 
him  hid.  Bring  him  out — it's  no  use  trying  to  get  him 
away  from  us.  We  want  him,  and  we've  come  to  git 
him." 

The  words  of  the  leader  got  their  support  in  the  rum 
ble  of  fourscore  throats. 

"I'm  telling  you  the  truth,"  quavered  poor  Aurora 
Lane.  "Men,  can't  you  believe  me?  Have  I  ever  lied 
to  you?" 

A  roar  of  brutish  laughter  greeted  this.  "Listen  at 
her  talk!"  cried  one  tall  young  man.  "Fine,  ain't  it  I 
She's  been  just  a  angel  here!  Oh,  no,  she  wouldn't 
lie  to  us  about  that  boy — oh!  no,  she  never  has! 
Why,  you  ain't  never  done  nothing  but  lie,  all  your 
life!" 

They  laughed  again  at  this,  and  became  impatient. 

"This  is  her  little  old  place,"  began  the  same  voice. 


THE  MOB 


"I've  never  been  in  it  before.  I  bet  they's  been  goings-on, 
right  here,  more'n  once/' 

"That's  so!"  said  a  man  whose  mouth  corners  were 
drawn  down  hard.  "And  in  this  here  God-fearin'  town 
o'  ours,  that's  always  wanted  to  be  respectable/' 

"Sure  we  did,  all  of  us !"  encored  the  cracking  treble 
of  the  same  tall,  well-dressed  young  man.  "Whose  fault 
if  we  ain't?  She's  his  mother.  This  whole  business 
come  of  her  bein'  what  she  is — looser'n  hell,  that's  all. 
We  stood  it  all  for  years — but  this  is  too  much — killin' 
the  city  marshal " 

"I  didn't!"  cried  Aurora  Lane,  ghastly  pale.  "He 
never  did.  I've  tried  to  live  here  clean  for  twenty  years. 
Not  one  of  you  can  raise  a  voice  against  me — you  cow 
ards,  you  liars!  My  boy — if  he  were  here,  not  any 
ten  of  you'd  dare  say  that!  You'd  not  dare  to  touch 
him.  Oh,  you  brutes — you  low-down  cowards !" 

"We'll  show  you  if  we  don't  dare !"  rejoined  the  steady 
voice  of  the  leader.  "Fetch  him  out  now  and  we'll  show 
you  about  that.  We're  goin'  to  git  him,  first  'r  last, 
and  it's  no  use  trying  to  stop  it.  We'll  reg'late  this 
town  now,  in  our  own  way.  If  that  boy's  out  of  jail, 
he's  either  skipped  or  else  he's  here.  Either  way,  the 
safest  thing  to  do  is  to  come  on  through  with  him.  If 
you  don't,  we'll  see  about  you — and  we'll  do  it  mighty 
soon.  Bring  him  out/' 

"Oh,  hell!"  shrilled  a  falsetto  voice,  "you're  wastin' 

277 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


time  with  her.  Go  on  in  after  him — she's  got  him  hid — 
she's  kep'  him  hid  for  twenty  years  and  she's  keepin' 
him  hid  now — and  you  can  gamble  on  it!  Go  on  in 
and  git  him!" 

There  came  a  shuffling  of  feet  on  the  walk,  on  the  gal 
lery  floor.  Aurora  was  conscious  that  the  blur  of  faces 
was  closer  to  her.  .  .  .  She  saw  masks,  hats,  kerchiefs, 
stubbled  chins  crowding  in,  close  up  to  her.  A  reek 
of  the  man  pack  came  to  her,  close,  stifling,  mingled  of 
tobacco,  alcohol,  and  the  worse  effluvia  of  many  men 
excited.  .  .  .  The  terror,  the  horror,  the  disgust,  the  re 
pugnance  of  it  all  fell  on  her  like  a  blanket,  stifling, 
suffocating,  terrifying.  She  no  longer  reasoned — it  was 
only  desperation,  terror,  which  made  her  spread  out  her 
arms  from  lintel  to  lintel  of  her  little  deserted  door, 
where  the  last  sacred  shred  of  her  personal  privacy  now 
was  periled.  The  last  instinctive,  virginal — yes,  vir 
ginal — terror  at  the  intrusion  of  man,  of  men,  of  many 
men,  was  hers  now.  Home — sanctuary — refuge — all,  all 
was  gone.  She  stood,  disheveled,  her  gown  now  half 
loosed  at  the  neck  as  she  spread  her  weak  arms  open 
across  her  door.  Her  eyes  were  large,  round,  open,  star 
ing,  her  face  a  tragic  mask  as  she  stood  trying — a  woman, 
weak  and  quite  alone — to  beat  back  the  passion  of  these 
who  now  had  come  to  rob  her  of  the  last — the  very  last 
— of  the  things  dear  to  her ;  the  last  of  the  things  sacred 
to  her,  the  things  any  woman  ought  to  claim  inviolate 

278 


THE  MOB 


and  under  sanctuary,  no  matter  who  or  what  she  is  or 
ever  may  have  been. 

But  the  fever,  the  hysteria  of  these  no  longer  left 
either  reason  or  decency  to  them,  neither  any  manner 
of  respect  for  the  sacredness  of  womanhood ;  a  thing  for 
the  most  part  inherent  even  under  the  severest  strains 
ever  brought  to  bear  on  man  to  make  him  lower  than 
the  brute — the  brute  which  at  its  basest  never  lacks  ac 
knowledgment  of  the  claims  of  sex. 

These  men  had  reverted,  dropped,  declined  as  only  man 
himself,  noblest  and  lowest  of  all  animals,  may  do. 
There  was  no  mercy  in  them,  indeed  no  comprehension, 
else  the  appeal  of  the  outraged  horror  on  the  face  of 
Aurora  Lane  must  have  driven  them  back,  or  have  struck 
them  down  where  they  stood. 

"You  git  on  out  of  the  way  now !"  she  heard  the 
coarse  voice  of  someone  say  in  her  face.  .  .  . 

She  held  her  arms  out  across  her  door  only  for  an  in 
stant  longer — she  never  knew  by  whom  it  was,  or  when, 
that  they  were  swept  down,  and  she  herself  swept  aside, 
crumpled  in  a  corner  of  her  room. 

The  mob  was  in  her  home ;  she  had  no  sanctuary !  She 
caught  glimpses  of  dark  shoulders,  compacted  by  the  nar 
rowness  of  the  little  rooms,  surging  on  in  and  over 
everything,  into  every  room,  testing  every  crack  and 
crevice.  She  heard  laughs,  oaths,  obscenity  such  as  she 
had  never  dreamed  men  used — for  she  knew  little  of 

279 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  man  animal — heard  the  rising  unison  of  voices  re 
cording  a  renewed  disappointment  and  chagrin. 

"Damn  her!  She's  got  away  with  him!"  called  out 
someone. 

"Sure  she  has — we  might  of  expected  it,"  rejoined 
another.  "She  always  gets  by  with  it  somehow — she's 
pulled  the  wool  over  our  eyes  all  her  life.  She's  fooled 
us  now  once  more." 

"What'll  we  do,  boys?"  cried  out  the  falsetto  of  the 
tall  young  man,  whose  face  was  not  set  strong  with  a 
man's  beard-roots.  "Are  we  going  to  let  her  get  away 
with  it  like  this?" 

He  made  some  sort  of  answer  for  himself,  for  there 
came  the  crash  of  broken  glass  as  he  flung  some  object 
across  the  room. 

It  was  enough — it  was  the  cue.  "Smash  her  up, 
boys !"  cried  out  another  voice.  "Put  her  out  of  busi 
ness  now!  She's  fooled  us  for  the  last  time." 

They  did  not  find  Don  Lane,  not  though  they  searched 
this  house  as  they  had  the  jail.  So  now  their  anger 
caught  them,  resentful,  unreasoning,  unfeeling,  brutal 
anger.  .  .  . 

So  they  wrecked  the  little  house  of  Aurora  Lane. 
They  tore  down  the  pictures  from  the  walls,  the  cur 
tains  from  the  windows,  broke  in  the  windows  them 
selves.  They  smashed  one  piece  of  furniture  against 
another.  They  even  tore  up  the  little  white  bed — at 

280 


THE  MOB 


which  for  twenty  years  nightly  Aurora  Lane  had 
kneeled  to  pray.  Someone  caught  up  one  of  the  pil 
lows,  laughing  loudly.  "Here  you  are,  here's  plenty,  I 
reckon!  Damn  you!  You're  lucky  we  don't  give  you 
a  ride.  Tar'n  feathers,  'n  a  ride  on  a  rail — that's  the 
medicine  for  such  as  you." 

The  thought  of  escape,  of  rescue,  of  resistance  now 
had  passed  from  the  mind  of  Aurora  Lane.  Frozen, 
speechless,  motionless,  she  waited,  helpless  before  this 
blind  fury.  They  had  been  after  Don,  and  they  had 
not  found  him.  Where  was  Don?  And  what  would 
they  now  do  to  her?  What  was  that  last  coarse,  terrible 
threat  that  they  had  meant? 

She  caught  her  torn  frock  again  to  her  throat  as  she 
saw,  not  a  definite  movement  toward  her,  but  a  cessa 
tion  of  movement,  a  pause,  a  silence,  which  seemed 
more  terrible  and  more  ominous  than  anything  yet  in  all 
this  hour  of  torment  and  terror.  What  would  they  do 
now? 

They  had  halted,  paused,  they  stood  irresolute,  still 
a  pack,  a  mass,  a  mob,  not  yet  resolved  into  units  of 
thinking,  reasoning,  human  beings;  when  without  warn 
ing  suddenly,  there  came  something  to  give  them  cause 
for  thought. 

There  was  still  a  rather  dense  crowd  around  the  gate, 
on  the  walk,  where  some  score  or  more  lingered,  who 
either  had  not  entered  the  house  or  who  had  emerged 

281 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


from  it.  It  was  against  the  edge  of  this  mass  that  a 
heavily  built  man,  heavy  of  face,  heavy  of  hand,  cast 
himself  as  he  now  came  running  up. 

It  was  the  sheriff,  Dan  Cowles.  He  thrust  a  revolver 
barrel  into  the  face  of  the  nearest  man,  caught  another 
by  the  shoulder.  A  halt,  a  pause,  whether  of  irresolution 
or  of  doubt,  of  indecision  or  of  shame,  came  like  a 
falling  and  restraining  hand  upon  all  this  lately  demoni 
acal  assemblage.  They  did  not  move.  It  was  as  though 
a  net  had  been  sprung  above  them  all. 

"Halt!"  called  out  the  voice  of  the  sheriff,  high  and 
clear.  "What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"It's  the  sher'f !"  croaked  one  gray  beard  farther  back. 
"God !  what'll  he  do  to  us  now  ?" 

The  feeling  of  apprehension  gave  courage  to  some 
of  the  bolder.  Two  or  three  sprang  upon  Cowles  from 
behind  and  broke  him  down.  He  fell,  his  revolver  pulled 
from  his  hand.  He  looked  up  into  faces  that  he  knew. 

"Make  a  move  and  you'll  get  it,"  said  a  hoarse,  croak 
ing  voice  above  him.  "Shut  up  now  and  keep  quiet,  and 
keep  to  yourself  what  you  seen.  We're  just  having  a 
little  surprise  party,  that's  all.  We're  only  cleaning 
up  this  town." 

But  now  another  figure  came  running — more  than  one. 
Judge  Henderson  himself  had  heard  the  tumult  on  the 
streets.  It  was  he  who  first  hurried  up  to  the  edge  of 
the  crowd. 

282 


THE  MOB 


"Men!"  he  cried,  holding  up  his  hand.  "What  are 
you  doing?  Disperse,  in  the  name  of  the  law!  I  com 
mand  it!" 

They  had  long  been  used  to  obeying  the  voice  of  Judge 
Henderson.  He  was  their  guide,  their  counselor,  their 
leader.  Some  hesitated  now. 

And  then  Judge  Henderson  pushed  into  the  little 
group,  looked  over  their  heads,  their  shoulders — and 
saw  what  ruin  had  been  wrought  in  Aurora  Lane's 
little  home.  He  saw  Aurora  standing  there,  outraged 
in  every  fiber,  desecrated  in  her  very  soul,  the  ruins 
of  her  lost  sanctuary  lying  all  about  her  and  on  her 
face  the  last,  last  anguish  of  a  woman  who  has  said 
farewell  to  all,  everything — life,  happiness,  peace,  hope, 
and  trust  in  God. 

Henderson  cast  his  own  hands  to  his  face  as  he 
pushed  back  from  that  sight.  He  stood  trembling  and 
silent,  unstrung  by  one  swift,  remorseless  blow  from  his 
own  soul,  his  own  long  sleeping  conscience. 

Afar  off,  in  the  village,  someone  rang  a  bell — that  at 
the  engine  house.  Its  summons  of  alarm  called  out 
every  townsman  not  already  in  the  streets. 

But  before  this  time  reaction  had  begun  in  the  mob. 
Something  about  Judge  Henderson — the  sudden  change 
in  his  attitude — the  blanched  terror,  the  awful  horror 
which  showed  now  in  his  face — seemed  to  bring  reason 
to  their  own  inflamed  and  muddled  minds.  And  now, 

283 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


as  they  hesitated,  they  felt  the  impact  of  two  other  strong 
men  who  flung  themselves  against  them,  shouldered  their 
way  through,  up  to  the  side  of  the  struggling  sheriff. 
Those  in  the  way  looked  into  the  barrels  of  two  re 
volvers,  one  held  in  each  hand  of  a  tall  man,  a  giant  in 
his  rugged  strength,  as  those  knew  whom  he  jostled 
aside  in  his  savage  on-coming. 

"Hold  on,  men!"  cried  out  the  great  voice  of  Horace 
Brooks.  "I'll  kill  the  first  man  that  makes  a  move. 
Law  or  no  law,  I'll  kill  you  if  you  move.  What  are 
you  doing  here?" 

At,  his  side  there  was  another,  a  young  man — white- 
faced — a  tall  young  man  whom  not  all  of  them  had  seen 
before,  whom  not  many  recognized  now  in  the  sudden 
confusion  as  they  swayed  back,  jostling  one  and  an 
other  in  the  attempt  to  get  away — the  young  man,  the 
prisoner  they  had  wanted  and  not  found.  The  young 
man  swung  at  one  arm  of  Hod  Brooks,  tried  to  wrest 
from  him  one  of  the  revolvers — sought  to  gain  some 
weapon  with  which  he  might  kill.  But  Hod  Brooks  kept 
him  away. 

"Get  back,"  he  said,  "leave  it  to  us.  God!  Don't 
look  at  that !  They've  smashed  her  place  all  to  hell !" 

Still  another  man  came,  running,  shouting — calling 
out — calling  some  of  those  present  by  their  own  names. 
It  was  old  Eph  Adamson,  and  tears  were  streaming 
down  his  face.  ^ 

284 


THE  MOB 


"You  men !"  he  called  out,  and  he  named  them  one 
after  another.  "You're  my  neighbors,  you're  my  friends. 
What  are  you  doing  here — oh,  my  God! — my  God! 
What  have  you  done?  She's  a  good  woman — I  tell  you 
she's  a  good  woman." 

The  three  of  these  newcomers  broke  their  way  in 
to  the  side  of  the  sheriff,  who  by  this  time  was  up  to  his 
knees.  They  caught  his  gun  away  from  the  man  who 
had  taken  it. 

"Give  it  to  me !"  said  the  low,  cold  voice  of  the  young 
man  who  was  fighting — and  before  his  straight  thudding 
blows  a  man  dropped  every  now  and  then  as  he  came 
on,  struggling  desperately  to  get  the  weapon.  "Give  it 
to  me!" 

He  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  sheriff's  gun;  but 
still  they  put  him  away,  gasping,  his  eyes  with  murder 
in  them. 

"Get  back,"  cried  Horace  Brooks.  "Leave  it  alone. 
Get  back.  Look  out,  men — he'll  shoot!" 

There  were  five  of  them  now  who  made  a  little  group. 
Two  others  came  running  to  join  them — Nels  Jorgens, 
the  wagon-maker  and  blacksmith — at  his  side  the  spare 
figure  of  the  gray-bearded  minister,  Rawlins,  of  the 
Church  of  Christ. 

"Get  into  them  now,  Dan!"  cried  the  great  voice  of 
Horace  Brooks.  "Break  through." 

So  they  broke  through.  Men  fell  and  stumbled, 

285 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


whether  from  blows  or  in  the  confusion  of  their  own 
efforts  to  escape.  At  the  edges  of  the  crowd  men  turned 
and  ran — ran  as  fast  as  they  could.  After  a  time  they 
of  the  smaller  party  were  almost  alone. 

The  sheriff  turned  away,  picking  up  a  coat  which  he 
found  lying  on  the  ground.  The  tall  young  man  who  had 
fought  at  his  side  stood  now  leaning  against  the  fence, 
his  face  dropped  into  his  hands,  shaking  his  head  from 
side  to  side,  unable  to  weep.  Cowles  stepped  up  to 
him. 

"I'm  glad  you  come,  boy,"  said  he,  "but  it's  no  place 
for  you  here.  I  must  have  left  the  door  open  when 
I  went  away — I  plumb  forgot  it.  Where've  you  been, 
anyhow  ?" 

"You  forgot — you  left  the  door  unlocked  after  she 
went  away — Anne.  But  I  wasn't  trying  to  escape — I 
wasn't  going  out  of  town." 

"Where  was  you,  then?" 

"I  was  down  at  the  bridge — I  was  thinking  what  to 
do.  Once  my  mother  was  going  to  take  me  there.  .  .  . 
But  I  thought  of  her — Anne,  you  know,  and  my  mother, 
too.  I  hardly  knew  what  was  right.  ...  I  heard  the 
noise.  .  .  ." 

Dan  Cowles  looked  at  him  soberly.  "Run  on  down 
to  the  jail  now,  son,  and  tell  my  wife  to  lock  you  in. 
Tell  her  I'll  be  on  down,  soon's  I  can." 

Judge  Henderson,  white-faced,  trembling,  looked  in  the 

286 


THE  MOB 


starlight  into  the  face  of  the  one  man  whom  he  classed 
as  his  rival,  his  enemy  in  this  town — it  was  a  wide, 
white  face  with  narrow  and  burning  eyes,  a  Berserker 
face  framed  with  its  fringe  of  red.  Horace  Brooks  him 
self  was  still  almost  sobbing  with  sheer  fighting  rage. 
There  was  that  in  his  eye  terrible  to  look  upon. 

"Oh,  my  God !"  said  Judge  Henderson  again  and  again. 

"Oh,  my  God! — my  God! "     He  supported  himself 

against  the  broken  posts  of  what  had  been  the  little  gate 
of  Aurora  Lane. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  IDIOT 

AT  seven  o'clock  of  Monday  morning,  Johnnie 
Adamson  stood  at  the  roadside  at  the  front  of 
his  father's  farmhouse.  He  held  in  his  hands 
a  wagon  stake  which  he  had  found  somewhere  and  with 
it  smote  aimlessly  at  anything  which  came  in  his  way. 
His  usual  amiable  smile  was  gone.  A  low  scowl,  like 
that  of  some  angered  anthropoid,  had  replaced  it.  His 
mother,  seeing  that  some  unusual  turn  had  taken  place 
in  his  affliction,  stood  at  the  window  of  the  farmhouse 
looking  out  at  him  and  wringing  her  hands.  She  long 
ago  had  ceased  to  weep — the  fountain  of  tears  had 
dried  within  her  soul.  There  came  to  her  now  and  then 
the  sound  of  his  hoarse  defiance,  hurled  at  all  who  passed 
by  on  the  road. 

"Son  John! — Eejit! — Whip  any  man  in  Jackson 
County !" 

Ephraim  Adamson  was  at  the  time  in  the  field  at  work. 
His  wife  at  length  crept  out  to  the  back  porch  and 
pulled  the  cord  of  the  dinner  bell.  Its  sound  rang  out 
across  the  fields.  Her  husband  came  running,  more 
than  half  suspicious  of  the  cause  of  the  alarm.  Long 

288 


THE  IDIOT 


had  their  lives  been  lived  in  vague  dread  of  this  very 
thing — a  violent  turn  in  the  son's  affliction.  The  fa 
ther's  anxious  face  spoke  the  question. 

"Yes,  he's  bad,"  said  the  wife  to  him.  "I'm  afraid  of 
him — he's  getting  worse." 

The  father  walked  out  into  the  front  yard.  The  youth 
came  toward  him,  grinning  pleasantly.  He  fell  into  the 
position  of  a  batsman,  swinging  his  club  back  and  forth 
as  he  must  some  time  have  seen  ball  players  do. 

"Now  you — now  you  throw  it  at  me — and  I'll  hit  it," 
said  the  half-wit.  "You — you  throw  it  at  me — and  I'll 
hit— I'll  hit  it." 

To  humor  him,  his  father  pitched  at  him  a  broken 
apple  that  lay  on  the  ground  near  by.  Johnny  struck 
at  it  and  by  chance  caught  it  fair,  crushing  it  to  frag 
ments.  At  this  he  laughed  in  glee. 

"Now— now— another  one,"  said  he.  "I'll  hit— I'll  hit 
them  all." 

His  father  walked  up  to  him  and  reached  out  a  hand, 
but  for  the  first  time  the  boy  resented  his  control.  He 
broke  away,  swinging  his  club  menacingly,  striking  at 
everything  in  his  way.  Ephraim  Adamson  followed  him ; 
but  still  evading,  the  half-wit  passed  out  through  the  gate 
which  led  into  the  garden  patch  at  the  rear  of  the  house. 
With  his  club  he  cut  at  the  tops  of  everything  green  that 
he  passed.  Especially,  with  many  yells  of  glee,  he  fell 
upon  the  rows  of  cabbages,  then  beginning  to  head  out. 

289 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


With  heavy  blows  of  his  club  he  cut  down  one  after 
another.  The  game  seemed  to  excite  him  more  and 
more.  At  last  it  seemed  to  enrage  him  more  and  more. 
He  struck  with  greater  viciousness. 

"Eejit!"  said  he.  "I'm  out— they  can't  pick  on  me! 
I  can  hit  them !  I  will,  too,  hit  them !  I'll  hit  him !" 

His  father,  following  him,  saw  the  face  of  the  club 
all  stained  now — stained  dark — black  or  red — stained 
green.  He  caught  at  the  stick,  but  for  once  found  his 
own  strength  insufficient  to  cope  with  that  of  his  son. 
The  latter  wrestled  with  him.  In  a  direct  grip,  one 
against  the  other,  in  which  both  struggled  for  the  club, 
the  father  was  unable  to  wrest  it  from  him;  and  con 
tinually  he  saw  a  new  and  savage  light  come  into  the 
eyes  of  his  son.  The  boy  threatened  him,  menaced  him 
with  the  club.  His  father  drew  back,  for  the  first  time 
afraid.  He  went  back  into  the  house,  to  his  wife,  on 
whom  he  turned  a  gray,  sad  face. 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  he  slowly,  "I'm  afraid  we'll  have  to 
send  him  away.  He's  awfully  bad — he  might  do  any 
thing.  I'd  rather  see  him  dead/' 

The  nod  of  the  sad-faced  woman  was  full  assent.  She 
gazed  out  of  the  window  blankly,  barrenly.  Ephraim 
Adamson  went  out  again  into  the  yard.  He  passed  the 
boy,  unseen,  went  out  into  the  stable  yard,  and  caught 
up  his  team,  which  soon  he  had  harnessed  to  his  light 
wagon.  By  this  time  Johnnie  had  gone  to  the  woodpile 

290 


THE  IDIOT 


and  taken  up  the  ax.  He  was  endeavoring  to  split 
some  cordwood,  but  he  rarely  could  hit  twice  in  the 
same  place,  all  his  correlations  being  bad.  His  father 
now  threw  open  the  gate  and  drove  into  the  yard. 

"Want  a  ride,  Johnnie  ?"  he  asked ;  and  the  boy  docilely 
came  and  climbed  into  the  front  seat  beside  him.  Not 
even  looking  at  his  wife,  Adamson  started  out  at  good 
speed  for  the  eight-mile  drive  into  Spring  Valley.  For 
the  most  part  the  boy  was  quiet  now,  but  once  in  a 
while  the  return  of  a  paroxysm  would  lead  him  to  shout 
and  fling  up  his  hands,  to  grin  or  make  faces  at  any 
who  passed. 

In  town,  at  the  corner  of  the  public  square,  Johnnie 
became  unruly.  Some  vague  memory  was  in  his  mind. 
He  pointed  down  the  head  of  Mulberry  Street. 

"I  want  to  go — I  want  to  go  there !"  said  he. 

Before  his  father  could  stop  him  he  had  sprung  out 
of  the  wagon  and  run  on  ahead.  Adamson  as  quickly 
as  possible  hitched  his  team  at  the  nearest  rack  and  fol 
lowed  at  full  speed,  sudden  terror  now  renewed  in  his 
own  soul.  The  boy  had  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  the 
little  house  of  Aurora  Lane — that  little  house  now  scarce 
longer  to  be  called  a  home ! 

Aurora  Lane  was  alive,  within.  She  moved  about 
dully,  slowly,  her  mind  numb  at  the  horror  of  all  she 
had  gone  through.  The  feeling  possessed  her  that  she 
was  without  help  or  hope  in  all  the  world,  that  her  God 

291 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


himself  had  forsaken  her.  She  heard  the  sound  of  run 
ning  footsteps,  and,  gazing  through  the  window,  saw 
the  idiot  son  of  Ephraim  Adamson  standing  just  inside 
the  gate.  She  heard  him  come  up  the  steps,  heard  him 
begin  to  pound  on  the  door. 

"Quick!  Miss  Lane,"  called  Adamson  as  he  came  fol 
lowing  up  on  the  run — he  hoped  that  Aurora  would 
hear  him.  "Don't  let  him  in.  Telephone — get  the  sher'f 
as  soon  as  you  can." 

He  walked  up  the  steps  now  and  took  the  boy  by  the 
arm  as  he  hammered  at  the  door  with  the  head  of  the 
club. 

"Come  on,  Johnnie,"  said  he.  "We'll  go  see  the  pic 
tures.  Come  along." 

It  was  not  better  than  an  animal,  the  creature  who 
now  turned  facing  him,  growling.  "Get  out!"  said 
Johnnie  to  him.  "No  one — no  one  can  pick  on  me !  I'll 
hit — I'll  hit  you.  Whip  any  man  in  Jackson  County. 
I'm  out — I'll  hit  anybody  touches  me.  I  guess  I  know !" 

His  sweeping  blows  about  him  with  the  club  forced 
his  father  back,  and  showed  that  any  attempt  to  close 
with  him  would  be  dangerous.  Adamson  retired  to  the 
gate.  Johnnie  went  on  smashing  everything  about  him, 
flower  beds,  chairs,  a  little  table  which  stood  on  the 
front  gallery — anything  left  undestroyed  by  the  more 
intelligent  but  not  less  malignant  visitors  of  the  night 
before,  who  thus  had  set  a  pattern  for  him. 

292 


THE  IDIOT 


"I  want  in,"  he  said  pleasantly  after  a  time,  seating 
himself  on  the  front  steps.  "Eejit — best  man  in  Jack 
son  County.  She  was  good  to  me.  She  spoke  to  me 
kind.  I  won't  hurt  her." 

Aurora  Lane  could  see  him  as  she  gazed  out  from 
behind  the  window  curtain.  Her  call  on  the  telephone 
to  the  officer  of  the  law  had  been  loud,  insistent,  the 
appeal  of  a  woman  in  terror.  But  now,  as  she  looked 
out  at  Johnnie  Adamson,  something  other  than  terror 
was  in  her  wan  face; — something  like  surprise — some 
thing  like  conviction !  The  thought  brought  with  it  no 
additional  terror — rather  it  carried  a  swift  ray  of  hope! 

It  was  toward  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning  now.  Few 
were  abroad  on  the  streets  of  Spring  Valley,  but  now 
and  then  a  passer-by  turned  to  gaze  at  a  man  who 
was  hurrying  across  from  the  court  and  turning  into 
Mulberry  Street.  It  was  Dan  Cowles,  the  sheriff,  and 
they  wondered  where  he  was  going  now. 

Ephraim  Adamson  heard  the  hurrying  approach  as 
Dan  Cowles  came  down  the  street.  The  boy  still  was 
sitting  on  the  steps.  Suddenly  he  turned — and  caught 
sight  of  the  face  of  Aurora  Lane  at  the  window.  He 
rose,  removed  his  hat,  and  smirked. 

"May  I  see  you  home?"  said  he.  "Eejit — the  best  man 
in  Jackson  County.  I  can  hit  anybody !  I'll  show  you." 

He  was  mowing,  smirking,  talking  to  her  through  the 
glass  of  the  window  pane,  jerking  and  twitching  about, 

293 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


but  he  turned  now  when  he  heard  the  steps  of  his  fa 
ther  and  the  sheriff  on  the  brick  walk  back  of  him. 

"He's  gone  bad,  Dan,"  said  Adamson  in  a  low  tone 
to  the  sheriff.  "We'll  have  to  lock  him  up.  He'll  have 
to  go  to  the  asylum.  He's  dangerous.  Look  out !" 

Suddenly  the  half-wit  turned  upon  them.  His  eyes 
seemed  fixed  on  the  star  shining  on  the  coat  of  Dan 
Cowles — identically  the  same  star  that  City  Marshal  Tar- 
bush  had  worn,  Cowles  having  for  the  time  taken  on  the 
deceased  man's  duties  also.  The  sight  enraged  him.  He 
brandished  his  club. 

"There  he  is !"  he  cried.  "I  hit  him  once— I  killed  him 
— I'm  going  to  kill  him  again !  You  can't  pick  on  me. 
I'm  out.  I'll  kill  you  again!" 

"My  God !  what's  he  saying,  Dan?"  quavered  the  voice 
of  the  unhappy  man,  the  father  of  this  wild  creature. 
"What's  he  saying?" 

"Johnnie!"  he  himself  called  out  aloud.  "Johnnie, 
tell  me — tell  me  who  it  was,  and  I'll  take  you  to  see 
the  pictures  right  away." 

"Him!"  shrieked  Johnnie.  "Him — there's  that  shiny 
thing." 

"When  was  it,  Johnnie — what  do  you  mean  about  this 
man?''  The  sheriff  now  spoke  to  him. 

"I  hit  you — that  night — I'll  hit  you  again  now!  No 
body  going  to  pick  on  Johnnie.  Best  man  in  Jackson 
County — eejit!" 

294 


THE  IDIOT 


"You're  going  to  take  me  away  to  jail  again,"  said 
he  cunningly.  "But  you  can't.  I  was  just  going  to 
talk  to  her  before,  and  you  come  and  took  me  away. 
But  I  hit  him.  Now  I'll  kill  you  so  you'll  stay 
dead." 

Slowly,  cautiously  creeping  down  the  steps,  club  in 
hand,  he  followed  the  two  men,  who  backed  away  from 
him — backed  out  through  the  gate  on  to  the  sidewalk, 
into  the  street. 

From  across  the  street  Nels  Jorgens  in  his  wagon  shop 
saw  what  was  going  on,  and  came  running,  a  stout  wagon 
spoke  caught  up  in  his  own  hand.  He  passed  this  to 
Ephraim  Adamson. 

"Lookout,  Sheriff!"  he  called  out.  "He's  wild.  He'll 
kill  somebody  yet." 

Nels  Jorgens  and  one  or  two  others  saw  what  then 
happened.  The  madman,  now  murderously  excited, 
stopped  in  his  deliberate  advance.  His  eyes  flamed  green 
with  hatred  at  all  this  before  him.  The  lust  of  blood 
showed  on  his  features,  usually  so  mild.  He  saw  his 
father  standing  now,  this  weapon  in  his  hand ;  and  for 
getting  every  tie  in  the  world,  if  ever  he  had  felt  one, 
sprang  at  him  with  a  scream  of  rage.  Ephraim  Adam- 
son  stepped  back,  tripped,  fell.  He  saw  above  him  the 
face  of  his  son,  with  murder  in  his  eyes.  He  closed 
his  own  eyes. 

And  then  Nels  Jorgens  and  one  or  two  others  who 

295 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


came  hurrying  up  saw  a  puff  of  smoke,  heard  the  roar 
of  a  shot  Dan  Cowles  had  fired  just  in  time.  .  .  . 

There  was  no  need  to  send  poor  Johnnie  Adamson 
to  the  asylum.  He  had  gone  now  to  a  farther  coun 
try.  He  sank,  a  vast  bulk,  at  his  full  length  along  the 
narrow  strip  of  dusty  grass  between  the  curb  and  the 
walk.  His  shoulders  heaved  once  or  twice,  his  arms 
fell  lax. 

Dan  Cowles,  solemn-faced,  his  weapon  still  in  his 
hand,  turned  to  gaze  at  the  haggard  man  who  rose 
slowly,  turning  away  from  that  which  he  now  saw. 

"It  was  the  act  of  committing  a  felony,"  said  Dan 
Cowles  slowly.  "It  was  to  save  human  life.  He  re 
sisted  arrest,  and  he  was  armed.  It  was  a  felony." 

But  when  old  Ephraim  Adamson  turned  his  gray  face 
to  that  of  the  officer  of  the  law,  in  his  sad  eyes  there 
was  no  resentment.  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"Dan,"  said  he,  "thank  God  you  done  it!  Thank  God 
it's  over!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  TRUE  BILL 

NOW  it  was  nine  o'clock  of  the  Monday  morning. 
The  grand  jury  was  in  session  thus  early,  and 
it  had  thus  early  brought  in  a  true  bill  against 
one  Dieudonne  Lane  for  murder  in  the  first  degree.  The 
session  of  the  jury  had  just  begun.  None  of  the  jury 
knew  of  these  late  events  at  the  house  of  Aurora  Lane. 

In  his  office  Judge  Henderson  was  pacing  up  and  down 
all  that  morning.  He  had  failed  in  every  attempt  to  stop 
the  progress  of  the  law.  He  could  not  on  Sunday  after 
noon  reach  by  telephone  or  otherwise  the  men  he  wished 
to  see ;  on  Sunday  night  had  seen  this  horror ;  and  now, 
early  on  Monday,  there  was  no  way  by  which  even 
he  could  arrest  the  procedure  of  the  grand  jury,  made 
up  of  men  who  lived  here,  and  who  before  this  had 
made  up  their  minds  on  the  bill  which  Slattery,  state's 
attorney,  zealous  as  they,  had  rushed  through  at  a  late 
session  with  his  own  clerks  on  Sunday  night  after  he 
had  ended  his  Sabbath  motor  ride  to  an  adjoining 
town. 

Fate  conspired  against  Judge  Henderson  and  his 
shrewd  plan  for  delay  which  was  to  have  left  him  secure 

297 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


in  his  ambition  and  saved  in  his  own  conceit.  These 
things  now  seemed  shrunk,  faded,  unimportant. 

He  had  not  slept  at  all  that  night.  Before  him  now 
swept  such  a  panorama  as  it  seemed  to  him  would  never 
let  him  sleep  again.  He  was  indeed  facing  now  the 
crisis  of  his  life — a  crisis  not  in  his  material  affairs  alone, 
but  a  crisis  of  his  moral  nature.  He  had  learned  in 
one  swift  lesson  what  others  sometimes  learn  more 
deliberately — that  the  world  is  not  for  the  use  of  any 
one  man  alone,  but  for  the  use  of  all  men  who  dwell 
in  it.  It  is  the  world  of  human  beings  who  are  part 
ners  in  its  use.  They  stand  alike  on  its  soil,  they  fight 
there  for  the  same  end.  They  are  brothers,  even  though 
savage  brothers,  after  all. 

And  among  these  are  fathers,  too.  It  was  his  own 
son  who  lay  in  yonder  jail.  Now  at  last  some  thought, 
a  new,  stirring  and  compelling  emotion  came  into  his 
soul.  It  was  not  her  boy,  but  his — it  was  his  son! 
And  now  he  knew  he  had  been  indeed  a  Judas  and  a 
coward. 

Judge  Henderson's  dulled  senses  heard  a  sound,  a 
distinct  and  unusual  sound.  He  stepped  out  into  the  hall 
and  spoke  to  a  neighbor  who  also  was  looking  out  of 
his  office  door. 

"What  was  that  shot?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  other.  "Where  was  it  at — 
around  that  corner?  Oh,  I  reckon  it  was  probably  a  tire 

298 


A  TRUE  BILL 


blew  out  at  Nels  Jorgen's  wagon  shop — he  has  automo 
biles  there  sometimes." 

Henderson  turned  back  to  his  own  office,  his  nerves 
twitching.  He  was  obliged  to  face  the  duties  of  this 
day. 

What  was  to  happen  now  to  William  Henderson, 
the  leading  citizen  of  Spring  Valley?  Actually,  he  now 
did  not  so  much  care.  It  was  his  son — his  own  son — 
in  yonder  jail !  The  heart  of  a  father  began  to  be  born 
in  him,  thus  late,  thus  very,  very  late.  .  .  .  He  had  seen 
her  face,  last  night. 

He  walked  slowly  down  his  stair  and  across  the  street 
to  the  courthouse.  His  course  was  such  that  he  could 
not  see  into  Mulberry  Street.  Some  persons  were  hur 
rying  in  that  direction,  but  he  did  not  join  them.  He 
was  too  preoccupied  to  pay  much  attention  to  the  sounds 
which  came  to  his  ears.  As  for  himself,  he  could  have 
gone  anywhere  rather  than  near  to  the  house  of  Aurora 
Lane  that  morning.  A  great  terror  filled  his  soul,  a 
terror  largely  of  these  people  among  whom  he  had  lived 
thus  long.  They  had  wrecked  her  home.  They  might 
have  done  worse  in  their  savagery.  But  it  was  he  him 
self  who  was  the  real  cause  of  that.  Would  she  still 
keep  her  oath  now,  after  this?  Could  she  be  silent 
now? 

He  walked  on  now  into  the  courthouse  and  down  the 
long  hall.  He  was  about  to  step  into  the  county  clerk's 

299 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


office,  when  he  came  face  to  face  with  a  tall  man  just 
stepping  out.  It  was  Horace  Brooks. 

"Well,  Judge,"  said  the  latter,  "how  is  it  with  you 
today?" 

He  spoke  not  unkindly,  although  his  own  face  was 
haggard  and  gray.  Neither  had  he  slept  that  night. 

"It  goes  badly  enough,"  said  Henderson.  "Nothing 
could  be  much  worse.  Well?" 

"You  want  to  know  if  the  grand  jury  has  voted  that 
bill?  They  have — I  have  just  heard.  Of  course  you 
know  I  am  counsel  of  record  for  the  defense." 

"I  didn't  know  it." 

"Yes,  Judge,  there's  going  to  be  a  fight  on  this  case," 
said  Hod  Brooks  grimly.  "That  is,  if  you  really  want 
to  fight.  I've  got  nothing  left  to  trade — but,  Judge,  do 
you  think  you  and  I  really  ought  to  fight — over  this 
particular  case?" 

"I  can't  forswear  my  own  professional  duties,"  began 
Judge  Henderson,  his  mouth  dry  in  his  dull  dread,  his 
heart  wrenched.  He  wondered  what  Hod  Brooks  knew, 
what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  knew  what  must  come, 
but  he  was  not  ready  for  the  hour. 

"Come  into  this  room,"  said  Horace  Brooks  suddenly. 
"I  won't  go  to  your  office,  and  I  won't  ask  you  to  come 
to  mine.  But  come  in  here,  and  let's  have  a  little  talk." 

They  stepped  over  to  the  door  of  the  county  treasurer's 
office,  across  the  hall.  It  was  a  room  of  the  sort  usual 

300 


A  TRUE  BILL 


in  a  country  courthouse,  with  its  high  stools  and  desks, 
its  map-hung  walls,  its  scattered  chairs,  its  great  red  rec 
ord  books  lying  here  and  there  upon  the  desk  top. 

A  young  woman  sat  making  some  entry  in  a  book. 
"Miss  Carrie,"  said  Horace  Brooks  to  her,  "Judge  Hen 
derson  and  I  want  to  talk  a  little  together  privately. 
Please  keep  us  from  being  disturbed.  You  run  away 
— we  won't  steal  the  county  funds." 

Smilingly  the  clerk  obeyed.  Brooks  turned  to  Judge 
Henderson  abruptly. 

"Look  here,  Judge,"  said  he. 

He  pointed  to  a  large  framed  lithograph  which  hung 
on  the  wall — the  same  which  had  hung  on  the  wall 
in  the  library  at  the  exercises  of  Saturday  night.  It 
was  a  portrait  of  the  candidate  for  the  United  States 
Senate — Judge  Henderson  himself.  The  latter  looked 
at  it  for  a  moment  without  comment,  and  turned  back 
with  an  inquiring  eye. 

Brooks  was  fumbling  in  the  side  pocket  of  his  alpaca 
coat,  and  now  he  drew  out  from  it  a  good-sized  photo 
graph,  which  he  placed  face  upward  on  the  desk  beside 
them.  It  was  done  in  half-profile,  as  was  the  portrait 
upon  the  wall. 

"Look  at  this  picture  too,  Judge,  if  you  please,"  said 
lie,  "and  then  look  back  again  at  the  lithograph.  That 
was  taken  some  years  ago,  when  you  were  young,  wasn't 
it?" 

301 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


Judge  Henderson  flushed  lividly.  "I  leave  all  those 
things  to  the  committee,"  croaked  he. 

" — But  this  one  here,"  said  Horace  Brooks  slowly, 
"was  taken  when  you  were  still  younger,  say,  when  you 
were  twenty-two,  wasn't  it?" 

He  moved  back  so  that  Judge  Henderson  might  look 
at  the  photograph.  He  saw  the  face  of  the  great  man 
grow  yellow  pale. 

"Where  did  you  get  this  ?"  he  whispered.    "How  ?" 

"I  got  it  of  Miss  Julia  Delafield,  at  the  library,  early 
this  morning,"  said  Horace  Brooks.  "I  told  Miss  Julia, 
whatever  she  did,  to  stay  in  the  library  and  not  to  go 
over  to  Aurora  Lane's  house.  I — I  didn't  want  her  to 
see  what  had  happened  there.  She  was  busy,  but  she 
found  this  picture  for  me.  And  we  both  know  that 
really  it  is  a  photograph  of  the  young  man  against 
whom  the  grand  jury  have  just  brought  a  true  bill — 
within  the  last  ten  minutes." 

There  was  silence  in  the  dusty  little  room.  The  large 
white  hand  on  the  desk  top  was  visibly  trembling.  Hod 
Brooks'  voice  was  low  as  he  went  on : 

"Now,  as  to  trying  this  case,  Judge,  I  brought  you 
in  here  to  ask  you  what  you  really  want  to  do?  I 
don't  my  own  self  very  often  try  cases  out  of  court — 
although  I  have  sometimes — sometimes.  Yes,  sometimes 
that's  the  way  to  serve  the  ends  of  substantial  justice." 

Henderson  made  no  reply — he  scarcely  could  have 

302 


A  TRUE  BILL 


spoken.  He  could  feel  the  net  tightening ;  he  knew  what 
he  was  to  expect  now. 

"Now,  here  are  these  two  pictures/'  resumed  Brooks. 
"Suppose  I  were  trying  this  case  in  court.  I'm  not  sure, 
but  I  think  I  could  get  them  both  introduced  in  evidence, 
these  two  pictures.  I  think  they  are  both  germane  to 
this  case — don't  you?  You've  been  on  the  bench — we've 
both  read  law.  Do  you  think  as  a  judge  you  could  keep 
a  good  lawyer  from  getting  these  two  pictures  intro 
duced  in  evidence  in  that  case?" 

"I  don't  see  how  you  could,"  said  the  hoarse  voice  of 
Judge  Henderson.  "It  would  be  altogether  immaterial 
and  incompetent." 

"Perhaps,  perhaps,"  said  Hod  Brooks.  "That's  an 
other  good  reason  why  I'd  rather  try  the  case  here, 
if  it  suits  you !  But  just  suppose  I  enlarged  this  photo 
graph  to  the  exact  size  of  the  lithograph  on  the  wall, 
and  suppose  I  did  get  them  both  into  evidence,  and 
suppose  I  unveiled  the  two  at  just  the  psychological  mo 
ment — I  presume  you  would  trust  me  to  do  that  ? 

"Now  if  I  hadn't  seen  you  last  night  just  where  you 
were,  if  I  hadn't  hoped,  from  what  I  saw  of  you,  that 
you  were  part  man  at  least — that's  how  I  would  try  this 
case!  What  do  you  think  about  it?" 

"I  think  you  are  practising  politics  again,  and  not 
law,"  sneered  Henderson.  But  his  face  was  white. 

"Yes?  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  I  don't  want  to  see  you  go 

303 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


to  the  United  States  Senate.  In  the  first  place,  though 
I  agreed  not  to  run  at  all,  I  never  agreed  to  help  you 
run.  In  the  second  place,  I  never  did  think  you  were  a 
good  enough  man  to  go  there,  and  now  I  think  it  less 
than  ever.  And  since  you  ask  me  a  direct  question  of 
political  bearing,  I'll  say  that,  if  the  public  records — 
that  is  to  say,  the  court  records  and  all  the  newspapers — 
showed  the  similarity  of  these  two  pictures  side  by  side, 
the  effect  on  your  political  future  might  be  very  con 
siderable!  What  do  you  think? 

"Now,  if  you  take  you  and  that  boy  side  by  side  to 
day,"  he  went  on,  having  had  no  reply,  "the  resemblance 
between  you  two  might  not  be  noticed.  But  get  the  ages 
together — get  the  view  of  the  face  the  same  in  each  case 
— take  him  at  his  age  and  you  at  something  near  the 
same  age — and  don't  you  think  there  is  much  truth  in 
what  I  said?  The  boy  has  red  hair,  like  me!  But  in 
black  and  white  he  looks  like  you!" 

Judge  Henderson,  unable  to  make  reply,  had  turned 
away.  He  was  staring  out  from  the  window  over  the 
courthouse  yard. 

"Some  excitement  over  there,"  he  said.  Hod  Brooks 
did  not  hear  him. 

"That  face  on  the  wall  there,  Judge  Henderson,"  said 
he,  "is  the  face  of  a  murderer!  The  face  of  this  boy 
is  not  that  of  a  murderer.  But  you  murdered  a  woman 
twenty  years  ago — not  a  man,  but  a  woman — and  damn 

304 


A  TRUE  BILL 


you,  you  know  it,  absolutely  well !  I  saw  last  night  that 
at  last  you  realized  your  own  crime,  that  crime — you  had 
guilt  on  your  face.  I  am  going  to  charge  you — just  as 
you  maybe  were  planning  to  charge  that  boy — with  mur 
der,  worse  than  murder  in  the  first  degree,  if  that  be 
possible — worse  even  than  prosecuting  your  own  son  for 
murder  when  you  know  he's  innocent! 

"You  murdered  that  woman  whom  we  two  saw  last 
night!  You  made  that  beastly  mob  a  possible  thing — 
not  now,  but  years  ago.  Do  you  think  the  people  of 
this  community  will  want  to  send  you  to  the  United 
States  Senate  if  they  ever  get  a  look  at  that  act?  Do 
you  think  they  would  relish  the  thought  that  you're  the 
special  prosecutor  where  your  son  is  on  trial  for  his  life  ? 
I  say  it — your  son!  You  know  it,  and  I  know  it.  You'd 
jeopardize  the  life  that  you  yourself  gave  to  him  and 
were  too  cowardly  to  acknowledge !  Do  you  think  you'd 
have  a  chance  on  earth  here  if  those  things  were  known 
— if  they  knew  you'd  refused  to  defend  him — that 
you'd  denied  your  own  son?  And  do  you  think  for  a 
moment  these  things  will  not  be  known  if  I  take  this 
case?" 

"This  is  blackmail !"  exclaimed  Judge  Henderson, 
swinging  around.  "I'll  not  stand  for  this." 

"Of  course,  it's  blackmail,  Judge.  I  know  that.  But 
it's  justice.  And  you  will  stand  for  it!  I  didn't  take 
this  boy's  case  to  get  him  hanged,  but  to  get  him  clear. 

305 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


I  don't  care  a  damn  how  I  do  it,  but  I'm  going  to  do 
it.  I'd  fight  a  man  like  you  with  anything  I  could  get 
my  hands  on.  This  is  blackmail,  yes ;  and  it's  politics — 
but  it's  justice." 

"I  didn't  think  this  was  possible/'  began  Henderson, 
his  voice  shaking.  "I  didn't  think  this  of  you." 

"There's  a  lot  of  things  people  never  thought  of  me," 
smiled  Hod  Brooks.  "I'm  something  of  a  trader  my 
own  self.  Here's  where  we  trade  again. 

"Listen.  I  didn't  have  the  start  that  you  had.  I 
started  far  back  beyond  the  flag,  and  I  have  had  to 
run  hard  to  get  into  any  place.  Maybe  I'll  lose  all  my 
place  through  this,  I  don't  know.  But  I  never  got  any 
where  in  my  life  by  shirking  or  sidestepping." 

"You  have  some  hidden  interest  in  this." 

"Yes!  Now  you  have  come  to  it!  I'm  not  so  much 
thinking  of  myself,  not  so  much  thinking  of  you.  I'm 
thinking  of  that  woman." 

He  could  not  find  Henderson's  eyes  now,  for  Hender 
son's  face  was  buried  in  his  hands. 

"I  was  thinking  of  something  of  the  sort/'  Brooks 
went  on  slowly,  "in  that  other  case,  in  Blackman's  court 
last  Saturday.  Why  didn't  you  try  that  case,  Judge? 
Didn't  you  know  then  he  was  your  boy?" 

The  suddenly  aged  man  before  him  did  not  make  any 
reply.  His  full  eyes  seemed  to  protrude  yet  more.  "I 
felt  something — I  wasn't  sure.  She'd  told  me  years  ago 

306 


A  TRUE  BILL 


the  boy  was  dead.  How  could  I  believe  I  was  his  fa 
ther  ?  Don't  ask  me." 

"I  wish  to  God  /  could  have  been  the  father  of  that 
boy!"  said  Hod  Brooks  deliberately. 

"We  seem  to  be  talking  freely  enough !"  said  Hender 
son.  The  perspiration  was  breaking  out  on  his  fore 
head.  But  Horace  Brooks  took  no  shame  to  himself 
for  what  he  had  said. 

"The  mother  of  that  boy,"  he  went  on,  "is  the  one 
woman  I  ever  cared  for,  Judge.  I'll  admit  that  to  you. 
If  there  were  any  way  in  the  world  so  that  I  could  take 
that  woman's  troubles  on  my  own  shoulders,  I'd  do  it. 
.  .  .  So,  you  see,  this  wasn't  blackmail  after  all,  Judge. 
It  wasn't  really  politics  after  all.  I  was  doing  this  for 
her." 

"For  her?" 

"Yes.  Now  listen.  You  met  her  as  a  girl,  when  she 
didn't  know  much.  I  never  met  her  really  to  know 
much  about  her  until  she  was  a  grown  woman,  with  a 
character — a  splendid  character  whose  like  you'll  not 
find  anywhere  in  this  town,  nor  in  many  another  town. 
You  never  had  the  courage  to  come  out  and  say  that 
she  was  your  wife — you  never  had  the  courage  to  make 
her  your  wife.  You  thought  you  could  last  her  out 
in  this  town,  because  she  was  a  person  of  no  conse 
quence — because  she  was  a  woman.  And  all  the  time 
she  was  the  grandest  woman  in  this  town.  But  she  didn't 

307 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


have  any  friends.    Now,  it  seemed  to  me,  she  ought  to 
have  a  friend. 

"Do  you  call  it  blackmail  now,  Judge  ?"  he  asked  pres 
ently.  "Is  this  politics  ?" 

But  he  ceased  in  his  assault  as  he  saw  the  pallor 
of  the  face  of  his  antagonist. 

"You've  got  me,  Hod  1"  said  Judge  William  Hender 
son,  gasping.  "I  confess !  It's  over.  You've  got  me !" 

"Yes,  I've  got  you,  but  I  don't  want  you,"  said  Hod 
Brooks.  "I'm  not  after  you  socially,  legally,  politically, 
or  any  other  way.  I  tell  you,  I'm  thinking  of  those 
two  women  who  put  your  son  through  college — who 
had  all  they  could  do  to  keep  their  souls  in  their  bodies, 
while  you  lived  the  way  you  have  lived  here.  They  paid 
your  debts  for  you — they  advanced  cash  and  character 
both  for  you — just  two  poor  women.  The  question  now 
is,  How  are  you  going  to  pay  any  of  your  debts  ?  There'll 
be  considerable  accrued  interest." 

"I  didn't  know  it  all,  I  tell  you,"  broke  out  Judge 
Henderson.  "She  hasn't  spoken  to  me  for  years,  you 
might  say — we  never  met.  I  didn't  know  the  boy  was 
alive — she  told  me  twenty  years  ago  that  he'd  died,  a 
baby.  This  has  all  come  up  in  a  day — I've  not  had  time 

to  learn,  to  think,  to  plan,  to  adjust God !  don't  you 

think  it's  terrible  enough,  with  him  there  in  jail?" 

"She  never  asked  you  for  help?" 

"No,  not  till  yesterday." 

308 


A  TRUE  BILL 


"She  was  game.  I  was  sure.  That  was  one  reason 
why  I  went  to  that  woman  night  before  last  an4  asked 
her  if  she'd  marry  me." 

"What— you  did  that?" 

"I  did  that!  I  told  her  /  would  take  the  boy  and 
give  him  a  father.  I  said  I'd  even  call  him  my  own — 
I'd  come  that  close  to  losing  my  own  self-respect  in  just 
this  one  case  in  the  world.  But,  I  told  her,  of  course 
I  couldn't  do  that  unless  she  was  a  widow.  And,  Judge, 
I  learned — from  her — that  she  wasn't  a  widow.  Oh,  no, 
she  didn't  tell  me  about  you — and  I  never  figured  it  out 
all  clean  till  just  now — that  the  late  District  Judge  of 
this  county,  and  the  Senatorial  candidate  for  this  State 
— was  the  father  of  the  boy,  Don  Lane.  Huh?  Oh, 
stand  up  to  it — you've  got  to  take  it. 

"Now,  this  boy  of  yours  had  no  father  and  two  moth 
ers — it's  an  odd  case.  But  how  did  I  learn  who  was 
the  father  of  that  boy?  Not  from  Aurora  Lane.  No, 
I  learned  that  from  the  other  mother — this  morning 
— Miss  Julia.  And  as  soon  as  I  did — as  soon  as  I  was 
convinced  I  had  proofs — I  started  over  to  find  you." 

"My  God!  man,  what  could  you  have  meant? — You 
told  her  you  would  marry  her?"  Judge  Henderson's 
sheer  astonishment  overcame  all  other  emotions. 

"I  meant  every  word  I  said.  If  it  could  have  been 
humanly  possible  for  me  to  marry  her,  I'd  have  done 
that.  Yes — I  wanted  to  give  her  her  chance.  I  couldn't 

309 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


give  her  her  chance.    It  looks  as  though  she  didn't  have 
one,  never  has  had,  never  can  have. 

"Now,  if  I  hadn't  seen  you  last  night  right  where  I 
did — if  I  didn't  believe  that  somewhere  inside  of  you 
there  was  just  a  trace  of  manhood — it's  not  very  much — 
it's  damned  little — I  wouldn't  have  asked  you  to  come 
in  here  to  talk.  I'd  have  waited  until  I  got  you  in  the 
courtroom.  I'd  have  waited  until  I  got  you  on  the 
platform,  and  then  I'd  have  taken  your  heart  out  in 
public.  I'd  have  broken  you  before  the  people  of  this 
town.  I'd  have  flayed  you  alive  and  prayed  your  hide 
to  grow  so  I  could  take  it  off  again,  and  I'd  have  hung 

it  on  the  public  fence.     But,  you  see — last  night 

My  God ! 

"I  wouldn't  trade  places  with  you  now,  Judge  Hen 
derson,"  said  Hod  Brooks,  after  a  time.  "If  I  knew 
I  had  been  responsible  for  what  we  saw  last  night,  as 
you  were  responsible — I'd  never  raise  my  head  again. 

"As  for  the  United  States  Senate,  Judge,  do  you  think 
you're  fit  to  go  there?  Do  you  think  this  is  blackmail 
now?  Do  you  think  you  want  to  try  this  murder  case? 
Do  you  think  you  want  to  try  this  case  against  this  boy 
— your  son — her  son?  There  may  be  men  worse  than 
you  in  the  United  States  Senate,  but  I  will  say  it  might 
be  full  of  better.  You're  never  going  there,  Judge. 
And  you're  never  going  to  try  this  case." 

"You've  got  me,  Hod,"  croaked  the  ashy-faced  man. 

310 


A  TRUE  BILL 


"Yeh,  Judge,  I  have !     But  that's  not  the  question." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"You  swore  the  oath  of  justice  and  support  of  the 
law  when  you  were  admitted  to  this  bar.  You've  broken 
your  oath — all  your  oaths.  Are  you  going  to  throw  your 
self  on  the  court  now  and  ask  for  forgiveness?" 

Henderson  stood  weakly,  half  supporting  himself 
against  the  desk  edge.  He  seemed  shrunken  all  at  once, 
his  clothing  fitted  him  less  snugly.  A  roughened  place 
showed  on  the  side  of  his  shining  top  hat — the  only 
top  hat  in  Spring  Valley. 

"I've  tried  this  case,"  said  Hod  Brooks  sharply.  "I've 
tried  it  before  your  own  conscience.  It  took  twenty 
years  for  a  woman  to  square  herself.  I'm  going  to 
ask  the  court  to  send  you  up  for  twenty  years.  You 
murdered  a  good  woman.  That's  a  light  sentence." 

A  large  fly  was  buzzing  on  the  window-pane  in  the 
sunlight,  and  the  sound  was  distinctly  audible  in  the 
silence  that  now  fell  in  the  little  room.  It  might  indeed 
have  been  twenty  years  that  had  passed  here  in  as  many 
minutes,  so  swift  a  revolution  had  taken  place.  The 
making  over  of  a  soul;  the  cleansing  of  a  life;  the  chang 
ing  of  an  entire  creed  of  conduct;  the  surrender  of  a 
dominating  inborn  trait;  the  tearing  down  and  building 
over  a  vain  and  wholly  selfish  man. 

"I  think  she's  a  good  woman,"  said  Hod  Brooks  sim 
ply,  after  a  time. 

3" 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


\  "So  do  1 1"  broke  out  Judge  Henderson  at  length,  with 
a  sudden  gasp.  "So  do  I!  She's  a  good  woman.  I 
knew  it  last  night.  I've  known  it  all  along,  in  a  way. 
It  all  came  over  me  last  night — I  saw  it  all  plain  for 
the  first  time  in  all  these  years.  Hod !  You're  right.  I 
don't  deserve  mercy.  I  don't  ask  it — I'd  be  ashamed 
to." 

"Religion,"  said  Hod  Brooks,  quite  irrelevantly,  "is 
not  altogether  confined  to  churches,  you  know.  A  man's 
conviction  may  hit  him  anywhere — even  in  the  office  of 
the  county  treasurer  of  Jackson  County.  But  if  I  was  a 
preacher,  Judge  Henderson,  I'd  be  mighty  glad  to  hear 
you  say  what  you  have  said." 

In  his  face  there  showed  some  sort  of  strange  emo 
tion  of  his  own,  a  sort  of  yearning  for  the  understand 
ing  of  his  own  nature  by  this  other  man ;  and  some  sort 
of  rude  man's  sympathy  for  the  broken  man  who  stood 
before  him. 

"You  both  were  young,"  said  he  softly  and  irrelevantly. 
"I'm  not  your  judge." 

"Hod,"  said  Judge  Henderson — "I'm  done !  I  wouldn't 
go  to  the  Senate  tomorrow  if  they'd  let  me.  For  twenty 
years  she's  taken  her  fate.  She's  never  told  my  name. 
She's  never  blamed  me.  She's  paid  all  her  debts.  In 
the  next  twenty  years — can  I  live  as  well  as  that?" 

"Yes,  she's  paid  her  debts.  We've  all  got  to  do  that 
some  time — there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  good  way  of 

312 


A  TRUE  BILL 


getting  clear  of  an  honest  debt,  does  there?  It  costs 
considerable,  sometimes."  Hod  Brooks'  voice  held  no 
wavering,  but  it  was  not  unkind. 

"But  now,  Judge,"  he  resumed,  "we  get  around  to  my 
profession,  which  is  that  of  the  practice  of  the  law. 
There's  a  true  bill  against  the  boy.  State's  Attorney  Slat- 
tery  don't  amount  to  much — I  know  about  a  lot  of  things. 
You're  the  real  intended  prosecutor  here.  Now,  I  don't 
want  any  passing  over  of  this  case  to  another  term  of 
court — I'm  not  going  to  let  that  boy  lie  in  jail." 

"That  was  what  I  meant  to  do — I  wasn't  going  to 
try  for  a  conviction — I  was  going  to  try  for  delay." 

"Come  into  court  with  me  and  openly  ask  the  quashing 
of  this  indictment,"  said  Hod  Brooks.  "And  we  can 
beat  that  delay  game  a  thousand  ways  of  the  deck !  But 
now,  now — you  did  have  the  heart  of  a  father,  then? 
So,  so — well,  well!  Say,  Judge,  we're  not  opponents — 
we're  partners  in  this  case." 

"Hod "  began  the  other;  but  Hod  Brooks  was  the 

master  mind.  "I  believe  we  can  show,  some  time,  some 
how,"  said  he,  "that  the  boy  didn't  do  it.  I  know  the 
boy's  mother.  Of  course,  his  father  wasn't  so  much!" 
He  broke  out  into  his  great  laugh,  but  in  the  corners 
of  his  eyes  there  was  visible  a  dampness. 

Judge  Henderson  hesitated  for  just  a  moment.  "Be- 
HCTC  at  least  this  much,  Hod,"  said  he.  "I  didn't  know 
as  much  at  first  as  I  do  now.  She — she  told  me  all — 

313 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


I  saw  it  all — last  night.  I  want  to  tell  the  truth — near 
as  I  know.  When  I  saw  the  boy  in  Blackman's  court — 
it  didn't  seem  possible,  and  yet  it  did.  But  who  gave 
you  the  notion  ?  What  made  you  suspect  it  ?  You  didn't 
suspect  it  then,  in  the  justice  court,  did  you?" 

"Only  vaguely,"  said  Hod  Brooks ;  "not  so  very  much. 
I'll  tell  you  who  did — a  woman." 

"Aurora?" 

"No — Miss  Julia.  Miss  Julia  sat  there  looking  from 
the  face  of  Don  Lane  to  your  own  face.  There  was 
something  in  her  face — I  can't  tell  what.  Why,  hell  I 
I  don't  suppose  a  man  ever  does  know  what's  going  on 
in  a  woman's  heart,  least  of  all  a  crude  man  like  me, 
that  never  had  any  fine  feelings  in  all  his  life.  But  there 
was  something  there  in  Miss  Julia's  face — I  can't  tell 
what.  In  some  way,  in  her  mind,  she  was  connecting 
those  two  faces  that  she  saw  before  her.  If  I  hadn't 
seen  her  face,  I  wouldn't  ever  have  suspected  you  of 
being  the  father  of  that  boy! 

"But  something  stuck  in  my  mind.  Now,  this  morn 
ing,  getting  ready  to  prepare  my  case,  defending  this 
boy,  I  went  over  to  Miss  Julia's  library.  I  still  remem 
bered  what  I  had  seen.  I  found  this  picture  there — she 
had  that  other  picture  there,  hanging  on  her  wall,  too. 
She  had  them  both !  One  was  on  the  wall  and  the  other 
on  her  desk.  Now,  she  had  certainly  established  some 
connection  in  her  own  mind  between  those  two  pictures, 


A  TRUE  BILL 


or  else  she  wouldn't  have  had  them  there  both  right  be 
fore  her." 

"Then  you,  too,  know/'  interrupted  Henderson,  "the 
story  of  those  two  women — how  they  brought  him  up 
from  babyhood — and  kept  the  secret?  Why  did  Miss 
Julia  do  that?" 

"Because  she  was  a  woman/' 

"But  why  didn't  she  tell?" 

"Because  she  was  a  woman." 

"But  why — what  makes  you  suppose  she  ever  would 
care  in  the  first  place  for  this  boy  when  he  was  a  baby?" 

"Again,  because  she  was  a  woman,  Judge !" 

"She  came  and  told  me  all  about  her  friendship  for 
Aurora.  But  she  admitted  she  didn't  know  who  the 
father  of  the  boy  was.  Then  why  should  she  connect 
me  with  this?" 

"The  same  reason,  Judge — because  she  was  a  woman! 

"And  when  you  come  to  that,"  he  added  as  he  turned 
toward  the  door,  "that  covers  our  whole  talk  today. 
That's  why  I  got  you  to  come  here.  That's  why  I'm  in 
terested  in  this  case.  That's  why  I've  made  you  try 
this  case  yourself,  here,  now,  Judge,  before  the  court 
of  your  own  conscience.  A  crime  worse  than  murder 
has  been  done  here  in  this  town  to  Aurora  Lane — be 
cause  she  was  a  woman!  She's  borne  the  brunt  of  it — 
paid  all  her  debts — carried  all  her  awful,  unspeakable, 
unbelievable  load — because  she  was  a  woman! 

315 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"And,"  he  concluded,  "if  you  ask  me  why  I  was  spe 
cially  interested  in  the  boy's  case  and  yours  and  hers — 
I'll  tell  you.  I  gave  up — to  you — all  my  hope  of  success 
and  honor  and  preferment  just  so  as  to  help  her  all 
I  could ;  to  stand  between  her  and  the  world  all  I  could ; 
to  help  her  and  her  boy  all  I  could.  It  was  because  she 
was  a  woman — the  very  best  I  ever  knew/1 


CHAPTER  XXII 
MISS  JULIA 

IT  was  now  ten  o'clock  of  this  eventful  morning  in 
quiet  old  Spring  Valley.  A  hush  seemed  to  have 
fallen  on  all  the  town.  The  streets  were  well-nigh 
deserted  so  far  as  one  might  see  from  the  public  square. 
Only  one  figure  seemed  animated  by  a  definite  purpose. 

Miss  Julia  Delafield  came  rapidly  as  she  might  across 
the  street  from  the  foot  of  the  stair  that  led  up  to 
Judge  Henderson's  office.  She  had  hobbled  up  the  stair 
and  hobbled  down  again,  and  now  was  crossing  the 
street  that  led  to  the  courthouse.  She  came  through  the 
little  turnstile  and  tap-tapped  her  way  up  the  wide  brick 
walk.  Her  face,  turned  up  eagerly,  was  flushed,  full  of 
great  emotions. 

Miss  Julia  was  clad  in  her  best  finery.  She  had  on 
a  bright  new  hat — which  she  had  had  over  from  Au 
rora's  shop  but  recently.  She  had  worn  it  at  the  great 
event  of  Don  Lane's  homecoming — worn  it  to  make 
tribute  to  her  "son."  She  wore  it  now  in  search  of  that 
son's  father — and  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea  in  the 
world  who  that  father  in  fact  might  be.  Miss  Julia's 
divination  was  only  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  on. 

317 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


The  father  of  Don,  the  unborn  father  of  her  unborn 
beloved — was  not  yet  caught  out  of  chaos,  not  yet  re 
solved  out  of  time — he  was  but  a  creature  of  her 
dreams. 

So  Miss  Julia  walked  haltingly  through  star  dust.  It 
whirled  all  about  her  as  she  crossed  the  dirty  street. 
Around  her  spun  all  the  nebulae  of  life  yet  to  be.  Some 
where  on  beyond  and  back  of  this  was  a  soft,  gray,  vague 
light,  the  light  of  creation  itself,  of  the  dawn,  of  the 
birth  of  time.  Perhaps  some  would  have  said  it  was 
the  light  shining  down  through  the  courthouse  hall  from 
the  farther  open  door.  Who  would  deny  poor  little  Miss 
Julia  her  splendid  dreams  ? 

For  Miss  Julia  was  very,  very  happy.  She  had  found 
how  the  world  was  made  and  why  it  was  made.  And 
mighty  few  wise  men  ever  have  learned  so  much  as 
that. 

She  searched  for  the  father  of  her  first-born — a  man 
tall  and  splendid  and  beautiful — a  man  strong  and  just 
and  noble.  Such  only  might  be  the  father  of  her 
boy.  .  .  .  And  she  met  him  at  the  door  of  the  county 
treasurer's  office,  his  silk  hat  slightly  rumpled  on  one 
side. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  and  started  back. 

She  had  only  been  thinking.  But  here  he  was.  This 
was  proof  to  Miss  Julia's  mind  that  God  actually  does 
engage  in  our  daily  lives.  For  here  he  was! 

318 


MISS  JULIA 


Now  she  could  bring  father  and  son  together;  and 
that  would  correlate  this  world  of  question  and  doubt 
with  that  world  of  the  star  dust  and  the  whirling 
nebulae. 

"Miss  Julia!"  The  judge  stopped,  suddenly  embar 
rassed.  He  flushed,  which  was  all  the  better,  for  he  had 
been  ashen  pale. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  looking 
for  you,  all  over.  I  was  at  your  office,  but  did  not  find 
you.  Of  course  you  have  heard?" 

"Heard?    No,  what  was  it?" 

"Why,  the  death  of  Johnnie  Adamson — it  was  the  sher 
iff,  just  now — Dan  Cowles  shot  him,  right  in  front  of 
Aurora  Lane's  house.  He  must  have  been  trying  to 
break  in  or  something.  His  father  was  there." 

"Why,  great  heavens  ! — what  are  you  telling  me  ?  The 
sheriff  shot  him?  Where  is  Cowles?  I  must  see  him." 

"He's  here  in  the  courthouse  now,  they  say.  But  it's 
all  over  now.  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  was  going  over 
to  Aurora's  house  early  this  morning,  but  Mr.  Brooks 
came  in.  I  must  go  over  at  once " 

"Come  this  way,  Miss  Julia,"  he  interrupted. 

He  led  her  into  the  room  he  had  just  left.  Racked 
as  he  was  himself,  he  knew  it  would  be  too  cruel  an 
unkindness  to  tell  Miss  Julia  now  of  what  had  be 
fallen  Aurora  Lane  the  night  before. 

"The  reason  I  came  to  you  first,"  said  Miss  Julia — 

319 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"before  I  went  to  Aurora — was  about  the  boy — about 
Don.  You  see,  he  confessed — the  half-wit  did — before 
he  was  killed.  The  sheriff  and  others  and  his  own  fa 
ther  heard  him  say  that  he  had  killed  Tarbush,  don't 
you  see?  He'd  gone  wild,  don't  you  see — he  was  a 
maniac.  It  was  a  madman  killed  Tarbush.  Why,  Don 
didn't  do  it — I  told  you  he  couldn't  have  done  it! 
Didn't  I? 

"So  now  it's  all  cleared — and  I'm  so  glad!"  she  con 
cluded,  breathless. 

"What's  all  this  you  are  telling  me,  Miss  Julia  ?  Why, 
this  is  basic  evidence — it  does  end  the  case!  But  you 
say  there  were  witnesses  to  this  confession?"  A  vast 
relief  came  into  Judge  Henderson's  ashen  face. 

"Yes,  yes,  the  sheriff  and  Eph  Adamson  and  Nels 
Jorgens — they  all  heard  him.  And  the  poor  boy — his 
body's  in  the  justice's  office  now.  They've  sent  a  mes 
senger  after  his  mother — poor  thing — oh,  poor  woman 
that  she  is!" 

"Where  is  Adamson  now — where's  the  sheriff?" 

"As  I  said,  the  sheriff  is  here  in  the  building  some 
where.  Old  Eph  Adamson  won't  speak  to  anyone.  He 
seems  half  out  of  his  own  mind  now.  But  he  doesn't 
blame  the  sheriff.  They  say  he's  sorry  for  Aurora. 
Why? 

"So  you  see,"  said  Miss  Julia,  leaping  over  a  vast  sea 
of  intervening  facts,  "everything's  all  right  now."  And 

320 


MISS  JULIA 


she  sighed  a  great  soft  sigh  of  complete  content.  "Of 
course  Don  didn't  do  it.  I  knew  that  all  along." 

"Where's  Anne — my  ward?"  asked  Judge  Henderson 
suddenly.  "I  want  to  speak  to  her  a  moment." 

"I  don't  know/'  said  Miss  Julia.  But  she  smiled,  and 
all  her  choicest  dimples  came  out  in  fine  array.  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  she  was  in  jail!  Now  I've  got  to 
go  over  to  Aurora's.  All  this  news,  you  know " 

But  Miss  Julia  did  not  hasten  away.  To  the  contrary, 
she  seemed  not  unwilling  to  linger  yet  a  time — uncon 
sciously.  The  truth  was  that  all  her  heart  was  happy, 
with  the  one  supreme  happiness  possible  for  her  in  all 
her  life.  For  a  second  time  she  was  here,  standing  face 
to  face  with  her  hero.  So  she  sighed  and  smiled  and 
dimpled  and  talked  over  this  thing  and  that — until  at 
length  she  turned  and  caught  sight  of  the  two  pictures, 
the  one  on  the  wall,  the  other  on  the  desk — which  both 
men  had  left  there,  forgotten. 

"Why,  what's  this  ?"  said  she.  "I  gave  Mr.  Brooks  this 
one  this  morning,"  she  said.  "He  might  at  least  have 
returned  it  to  me.  He  said  he  wanted  to  borrow  it  for 
a  little  while.  Was  he  here?" 

"He  just  went  away,"  said  Judge  Henderson  uneasily. 
"He  was  here  just  now." 

Miss  Julia  was  taking  up  the  little  photograph  and 
looking  from  it  to  the  lithograph  with  soft  eyes. 

"Isn't  it  fine?"  said  she.  "Fine!"  But  she  did  not 

321 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


say  which  one  of  the  two  faces  she  saw  before  her  was 
most  in  her  mind.  .  .  .  And  then  in  the  little  room  with 
its  dusty  windows  and  its  tumbled  books  and  map-hung 
walls,  Miss  Julia  leaped  to  the  great  fundamental  con 
clusion  of  her  own  life. 

She  saw  out  far  into  the  time  of  star  dust  and  the 
soft  vague  light  and  the  whirling  nebulae.  She  saw  all 
the  great  truths — saw  the  one  great  truth  for  any  woman 
— saw  her  hero  standing  here — the  dream  father  of  her 
own  dream  child.  .  .  .  But  Miss  Julia  never  grasped  the 
real,  the  inferior,  the  human  truth  at  all.  On  the  con 
trary,  she  made  a  vast  and  very  beautiful  mistake.  She 
had  assigned  a  dream  father  to  her  dream  son,  but  no 
more.  That  Judge  William  Henderson  was  the  father 
indeed  of  Dieudonne  Lane  she  no  more  suspected  than 
she  suspected  herself  to  be  his  actual  mother.  So,  there 
fore,  it  had  been  only  a  path  of  dreams  that  Horace 
Brooks  had  followed  when  he  saw  her  look  from  the 
boy's  to  the  father's  face.  It  was  only  a  path  of  dreams 
now  that  again  her  eyes  followed,  as  she  looked  from 
the  portrait  of  the  youth  to  the  man  who  stood  before 
her.  Ah!  Miss  Julia.  Poor,  little,  happy  Miss  Julia! 

"So  now,  Judge,"  said  she  at  last,  "you  can  clear 
him,  after  all.  It  will  be  so  fine  for  you  to  do  that — 
so  dramatic — so  fitting,  won't  it?" 

If  Judge  Henderson  could  have  spoken,  perhaps  he 
would  have  done  so ;  but  she  misunderstood  his  choking 

322 


MISS  JULIA 


silence.  She  was  miles  away  from  the  actual  truth; 
and  never  was  to  know  it  in  all  her  life. 

"Don  hadn't  any  father,"  said  she.  "His  father's  dead 
long  ago,  or  Aurora  would  have  told  me.  He's  in  his 
grave — and  she'll  not  open  it  even  for  me,  who  have  loved 
her  so  much.  But  if  he  had  had  a  father  .  .  ."  Her 
voice  ceased  wistfully. 

Judge  Henderson  coughed,  his  hands  at  his  throat. 
She  did  not  see  his  face. 

".  .  .  If  only  he  could  have  had  a  father  like — this!" 

Her  own  little  hand  fell  gently — ever  so  gently — on 
the  lithographed  face  of  the  great  man,  her  hero,  her 
champion — who  always  was  to  be  such  for  her.  It  was 
the  boldest  act  of  all  her  quiet  life.  Her  hand  was  very 
gentle,  but  as  it  fell,  perhaps  it  dealt  the  heaviest  blow 
to  the  vanity,  the  egotism,  the  innate  selfishness  of  the 
man  ever  he  had  known,  even  in  this  swift  series  of 
blows  he  was  now  receiving.  For  once  remorse,  regret, 
understanding  smote  him  sore.  He  saw  how  little  he  had 
earned  what  life  had  given  him.  He  saw — himself ! 

"But  then,"  she  added  hastily,  and  flushed  to  the  roots 
of  her  hair — "I  beg  your  pardon.  That  could  not  have 
been,  of  course.  Don's  father — the  way  he  was  born — 
why,  Don's  father  couldn't  have  been  a  man  like  you! 
We  all  know  that." 

Miss  Julia  hobbled  on  away  now  to  find  her  friend, 
Aurora  Lane.  She  did  not  know  the  story  of  the  night 

323 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


before.  Miss  Julia  was  very,  very  happy.  She  had  her 
boy  and  his  father  after  all — and  both  were  above  re 
proach!  And  she  never  told,  not  in  all  her  life — and 
she  never  knew,  not  in  all  her  life.  And  as  she  hob 
bled  now  up  the  walk  beyond  the  little  gate — somewhat 
repentant  that  her  own  eagerness  had  kept  her  away 
thus  long  from  Aurora,  she  felt  no  remorse  in  her  heart 
that  she  had  not  told  Aurora  Lane  die  real  secret  of  her 
own  life.  "Because,"  remarked  Miss  Julia,  to  herself, 
like  any  woman,  "there  is  one  secret  she  has  never  told 
me — she  has  never  told  me  who  was  Don's  father!" 

Poor  little  Miss  Julia!    Ah,  very  happy,  very  happy, 
little  Miss  Julia!    Because  she  was  a  woman. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
THE  STATE  VS.  DIEUDONNE  LANE 

JUDGE  HENDERSON,  haggard,  shaken,  turned 
and  walked  down  one  of  the  halls  which  traversed 
the  courthouse  building.  In  the  central  space, 
where  the  two  halls  crossed  at  right  angles,  was  a  curv 
ing  stair  leading  up  to  the  courtrooms  and  the  offices 
of  the  immediate  servants  of  justice.  As  he  stood  here 
he  saw  again  the  tall  figure  of  Horace  Brooks  approach 
ing.  He  walked  even  more  stooped  forward  than  was 
usually  his  case,  shambling,  his  feet  turned  out  at  wide 
angles.  His  great  face  in  its  fringe  of  red  beard  hung 
forward — but  it  bore  now  nothing  but  smiles.  It  showed 
nothing  of  triumph  over  the  man  he  saw  standing  here 
waiting,  humble  and  broken.  He  himself  had  said  that 
he  lacked  birth  and  breeding.  If  so,  whence  got  he 
this  strange  gentleness  which  marked  his  face  now,  as 
he  stepped  up  to  Judge  Henderson — the  man  who  but 
now  had  stood  between  him  and  success — who  must  al 
ways,  so  long  as  he  lived,  stand  between  him  and  hap 
piness — the  man  whom  he  had  beaten? 

"Judge,"  said  Horace  Brooks,  "I  reckon  about  the  best 
thing  we  can  do  is  to  go  right  on  up  to  the  court  and 

325 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


get  this  thing  cleaned  up.  "You've  heard  the  news  by 
now?" 

Henderson  nodded.    "Yes,  just  now." 

"Well,  that  softens  up  a  lot  of  things,  doesn't  it?  It 
will  make  things  easier  for  everyone  concerned — a  whole 
lot  easier  for  you  and  me,  Judge.  Now  we  can  ask  for 
the  quashing  of  this  indictment  and  the  court  can't 
help  granting  it.  Cowles  is  there.  He's  just  gone  up. 
Adamson  is  with  him." 

So  they  went  up  before  the  court,  and  the  judge 
listened  to  the  story  of  the  sad-faced  officer  and  the 
sad-faced  old  man  with  him.  And  presently  the  clerk 
at  his  side  inscribed  in  the  records :  "The  State  vs.  Dieu- 
donne  Lane,  murder  in  the  first  degree.  Indictment 
quashed  on  motion  of  Assistant  State's  Attorney." 

"You  will  discharge  the  prisoner  from  custody,  Mr. 
Sheriff,"  said  the  judge. 

"I'd  like  to  say,  if  it  please  the  Court,"  said  Cowles, 
drawing  a  large  and  adequate  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket  and  blowing  a  large  and  adequate  nose,  "that  last 
night,  at  the  time  of  the — the  disturbance  which  these 
gentlemen  here  helped  me  to  quell — this  same  young  man 
that's  just  been  discharged — why,  he  helped  me  as  much 
as  anybody." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  demanded  the  judge  severely. 
"You  let  him  out  of  your  custody  when  he  was  under 
commitment  ?" 

326 


THE  STATE  VS.  LANE 


"Yes,  your  Honor.  I  may  have  been  short  in  some 
of  my  duties,  your  Honor.  I  let  a  woman — a  young 
woman — go  in  there  last  night  to  see  him  for  a  few 
minutes.  When  she  went  out  I  must  have  forgot  to 
lock  the  door.  What  they  said,  now,  it  must  have  stirred 
me  up  some  way.  When  the  mob  formed  and  came  to 
the  jail  the  prisoner  had  walked  out.  But  right  at  the 
worst  of  it,  there  he  was.  And  after  it  he  went  on  back 
to  jail  alone.  When  I  got  back  he  was  in  his  cell.  The 
door  wasn't  locked  even  then.  My  wife  wasn't  there. 

"I  reckon,  your  Honor,  we've  all  of  us  sort  of  made 
a  general  mistake,"  concluded  Dan  Cowles  deprecatingly. 
"I  allowed  I'd  tell  this  Court  about  it." 

So,  amid  the  frowning  silence  of  the  court,  and  the 
silence  as  well  of  all  who  heard  this,  the  two  attorneys, 
the  sheriff  and  Ephraim  Adamson  walked  on  down  the 
winding  stairs. 

Adamson  saw  coming  across  the  courthouse  yard  the 
figure  of  an  angular  woman,  dressed  in  calico,  a  sun- 
bonnet  on  her  head,  a  sodden  handkerchief  in  her  hand. 
He  walked  on  hurriedly  to  meet  her.  At  the  very  spot 
where  so  lately  he  and  his  son  had  stood  to  challenge 
the  world  to  combat,  he  took  this  gaunt  old  woman  in 
his  arms,  in  the  sunlight  before  all  the  world.  "Mother !" 
said  he. 

And  at  about  this  same  time — since  after  all  the  world 
and  life  and  swift  keen  joy  of  living  must  go  on  just 

327 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  same — two  young  persons  stood  not  far  distant  from 
that  scene;  stood  not  in  the  full  light  of  the  sun,  stood 
not  in  the  wisdom  and  sadness  of  middle  age,  but  in 
youth — in  youth  and  the  glory  and  splendor  of  the  vast, 
ineffable,  indispensable  illusion.  The  dim  twilight  which 
lighted  them  might  have  been  the  soft,  vague  light  of  the 
world's  own  dawning — the  same  which  poor  Miss  Julia 
had  seen  that  very  day. 

Cowles  hastened  away  from  the  door  after  he  had 
thrown  back  the  bolts — the  bolts  and  bars  which  had 
been  laughed  at  by  love  all  this  time.  The  young  man 
came  out  into  the  stone-floored  hall  where  Anne  Oglesby 
stood  waiting  for  him — all  beautiful  and  fresh  and  clean 
and  sweet — fragrant  as  a  very  flower  in  her  worthiness 
for  love. 

"Don!"  she  said,  and  held  out  her  arms,  running  to 
ward  him. 

"Oh,  Anne!    Anne!" 

His  arms  went  about  her.  And  this  time  there  was 
no  one  there  to  see. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
THE  SACKCLOTH  OF  SPRING  VALLEY 

NUMBER  FIVE  roared  eastward  through  the  town 
that  day  on  time.  No  one  stepped  down  from 
the  train,  and  no  one  took  passage  on  it.  Spring 
Valley  had  dropped  back  into  its  customary  uneventful- 
ness  so  far  as  the  outer  world  might  tell.  It  was  but 
a  little  hamlet  on  the  long  line  of  fields  and  trees  that 
lies  along  the  way  of  Number  Five. 

Hurrying  on  toward  the  vast  confusion  of  the  me 
tropolis,  Number  Five  gave  up  its  tenants  to  be  lost 
in  the  cosmic  focus  of  the  great  city,  where  all  about 
were  the  lights  and  the  anxious  faces.  The  city,  with 
its  tall,  dentated  outline  against  the  sky — wonderful, 
beautiful,  alluring;  the  city  with  its  unceasing  strife, 
its  vast  and  brooding  peace,  where  walk  side  by  side  the 
ablest  men,  the  most  beautiful  women  of  all  the  world, 
all  keyed  to  the  highest  pitch  of  effort,  all  living  at  white 
heat  of  emotion  and  passion,  of  joy  and  of  sorrow — the 
city  and  its  ways — we  may  not  know  these  unless  we, 
too,  embark  on  Number  Five. 

In  the  silk-lined  recesses  of  one  of  the  city's  greatest 
hostelries,  where  anything  in  the  world  may  be  bought, 

329 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


there  sat,  soon  after  the  arrival  of  Number  Five  at  the 
metropolis,  the  traveling  man,  Ben  McQuaid  of  Spring 
Valley,  and  a  little  milliner  from  a  town  east  of  Spring 
Valley  which  Ben  McQuaid  "made"  in  his  regular  travel 
for  his  "house."  He  had  bought  for  her  now  the  most 
expensive  viands,  the  most  confusing  and  inspiring  wines 
that  all  the  city  could  offer.  So  ft- footed  servants  were 
attending  them  both.  They  were  having  their  little  fling. 
To  the  city  that  was  a  matter  of  small  consequence. 

Nor,  when  it  comes  to  that,  was  all  the  city  itself  of 
so  much  consequence.  The  great  fact  is  that,  while  Ben 
McQuaid  and  the  little  milliner  were  speeding  east  on 
Number  Five,  at  midday,  when  the  dusty  maples  of 
Spring  Valley  still  were  motionless  under  the  heat  of 
the  inland  summer  day — old  Nels  Jorgens'  wife  was 
walking  across  the  way  with  a  covered  dish  in  her  hands. 
...  In  the  dish,  you  say,  there  was  only  some  crude 
cottage  cheese  for  Aurora  Lane  ?  Was  that  all  you  saw  ? 
Seek  again :  for  you,  too,  are  human  and  neither  may  you 
escape  the  great  things  of  life,  nor  ought  you  to  miss 
its  great  discoveries. 

Mrs.  Nels  Jorgens  had  on  no  hat.  Her  gown  was  God 
knows  what — gingham  or  calico  or  silk  or  cloth  of  gold, 
who  shall  say?  She  was  a  woman  of  fifty-eight.  Her 
sunken  stomach  protruded  far  below  her  flattened  and 
withered  bosom  as  she  walked.  Her  stringy  hair  was 
gray  and  uncomely.  But  her  face — now  her  face — have 

330 


SACKCLOTH 


you  not  seen  it  ?  Perhaps  not  in  the  city.  But  the  little 
supper  in  the  city  (not  yet  come  to  the  time  of  sack 
cloth)  was  by  no  means  so  great  a  thing  as  the  service 
of  Mrs.  Nels  Jorgens,  the  wagon-maker's  wife,  when  she 
carried  across  to  Aurora  Lane  a  dish  of  something  for 
her  luncheon. 

And  others  came.  From  the  byways  of  this  late  cruel- 
hearted  village  came  women,  surely  not  cruel-hearted 
after  all.  They  seemed  to  have  some  common  errand. 
They  were  paying  off  the  debt  of  years,  though  what 
they  brought  was  not  in  silver  dishes  and  there  was  no 
bubbling  wine.  So  far  from  calling  this  a  merciless, 
ignorant  town,  a  hopeless  town,  at  noon  of  that  day, 
had  you  been  there  and  seen  these  women  and  their 
ways,  you  would  have  called  it  charitable,  kindly,  beau 
tiful  ;  though  after  all  it  was  and  had  been  only  human. 

Over  the  breathless  maples  there  seemed  now  to  hang 
a  stratum  of  another  atmosphere,  as  sensible,  as  apprecia 
ble,  as  though  a  physical  thing  itself.  The  sympathy 
of  Spring  Valley  was  awake  at  last — after  twenty  years! 

:<  'Rory,  I  just  thought  I'd  come  over  and  bring  you 
a  dish  of  this — I  had  some  already  made.  I  said  to  my 
self,  says  I,  if  we  can  eat  this  all  the  time,  maybe  you 
can  just  once" — it  was  the  old  jest,  humble  but  kind. 
It  sounded  wondrous  sweet  to  Aurora  Lane — after 
twenty  years. 

After  these  had  gone  away  again,  a  little  awed  by 

331 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


the  white,  sad  dignity  of  Aurora  Lane — even  nature 
seemed  to  relent.  Ben  McQuaid  and  the  little  milliner 
were  cooled  by  swiftly  revolving  electric  fans  yonder  in 
the  city.  But  along  in  the  evening  of  this  summer  day 
in  Spring  Valley  the  leaves  of  the  maples  were  stirred 
by  softly  moving  breezes  done  by  nature's  hand. 

"Aaron,"  said  old  Silas  Kneebone  to  his  crony,  "seems 
like  we're  goin'  to  get  a  change  of  weather.  Maybe 
the  hot  spell's  broke  at  last." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Silas,"  said  his  friend  sud 
denly,  straightening  up  on  his  staff.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do  with  you,  Silas.  Even  if  it  is  goin'  to  be  cool 
before  long — I'll  just  take  you  over  to  the  drug  store 
and  buy  you  a  drink  of  ice-cream  sody  at  the  fountain !" 

"Time  comes,"  he  continued  after  a  time,  "when  a  fel 
low's  been  feelin'  kind  of  stirred  up,  some  way — when 
he  feels  just  like  he  didn't  care  a  hang  for  no  expense. 
Ain't  that  the  truth?" 


CHAPTER   XXV, 
BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

THE  blessed  change  in  the  weather  came  on  apace. 
The  sultry  air  softened  and  became  more  life- 
giving.  Folk  moved  into  the  open,  sat  out  upon 
the  steps  of  the  front  galleries,  rich  and  poor  alike,  will 
ing  to  take  the  air.  There  was  an  unusual  silence,  an 
unwonted  scarcity  of  callings  back  and  forth  across 
the  fences.  The  people  of  the  town  did  not  care  to 
revive  the  memories  of  the  last  two  days. 

But  the  narrow  little  porch  in  front  of  the  millinery 
shop  on  Mulberry  Street  held  no  occupant.  There  was 
a  light  within,  but  the  blinds  were  close  drawn.  None 
who  passed  could  hear  any  sound. 

Aurora  Lane  had  sat  for  hours,  almost  motionless, 
at  the  side  of  the  table  where  customarily  she  worked. 
She  made  no  pretense  to  read  in  her  Bible  now.  Her 
little  white  bed  was  unrumpled  by  any  pressure  of  her 
body  bowed  at  its  side  in  prayer,  although  it  was  her 
hour  now  for  these  things. 

She  was  trying  to  think.  Her  mind  had  been  crushed. 
She  sat  dazed.  It  seemed  to  her  an  age  since  these 
women — these  strangely  kind-hearted,  newly  charitable 

333 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


women — had  been  here.  Or,  had  she  only  dreamed  that 
they  were  here?  Had  it  been  a  passage  of  angels  she 
herself  had  witnessed  here? 

She  had  told  Miss  Julia  not  to  let  Don  come  to  see 
her  just  yet  So,  though  she  had  heard  the  great  news 
of  his  release,  she  had  not  met  him.  "I'll  have  to  think, 
Julia/'  she  said.  "I  don't  know  what  I'll  do.  I  must 
be  alone." 

The  window  of  her  shop  was  still  unmended.  The 
red  hat  which  had  been  so  long,  in  one  redressing  or 
another,  the  sign  of  her  wares,  now  was  bent  and  broken 
beyond  all  possibility  of  restoration.  The  walls  were 
bare,  the  furniture  was  broken.  It  was  wreck  and  ruin 
that  lay  about  her,  as  dully  she  still  was  conscious. 

Twenty  years  of  it — and  this  was  the  climax!  What 
place  was  there  left  for  her  in  all  the  world?  As  she 
sat,  hour  after  hour,  alone,  Aurora  Lane  was  thinking 
of  the  dark  pool  under  the  bridge,  of  how  cool  and  com 
forting  it  might  be.  Her  bosom  rose,  torn  now  and  then 
with  deep,  slow  sobs,  like  the  ground  swell  of  a  sea  moved 
by  some  vast,  remote,  invisible  cause.  She  had  been 
sobbing  thus  for  some  twenty-four  hours. 

She  had  not  moved  about  very  much  today  in  her 
household,  had  not  often  left  her  chair  here  at  the  ta 
ble.  The  mob  had  destroyed  most  of  her  pitiful  store 
of  gear,  so  there  was  small  choice  left  her. 

Somewhere  she  had  found,  deep  down  in  a  trunk  tray, 

334 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

an  old  and  faded  garment,  its  silken  sleeves  so  worn 
that  the  creases  were  now  open — a  blouse  which  she  had 
put  away  long,  long  ago — twenty  years  and  more  ago. 
She  wore  it  as  best  she  might ;  and  over  the  neck  where 
the  silk  was  gone  she  had  cast  a  white  shawl,  also  of 
silk,  a  thing  likewise  come  down,  treasured,  from  her 
meager  girlhood  days.  This  would  serve  her,  so  she 
thought,  until  she  could  find  heart  to  go  to  bed  and  en 
deavor  to  find  sleep.  .  .  .  Yes.  They  may  have  been  of 
her  own  mother's  wedding  finery.  Yes.  Perhaps  she 
one  day  had  planned  they  might  be  parts  of  her  own 
wedding  gear.  .  .  .  But  she  had  had  no  wedding. 

She  had  done  her  hair,  with  Miss  Julia's  weeping  aid, 
as  simply  as  might  be — as  she  had  when  she  was  younger. 
It  lay  now  in  long,  heavy,  deep  rolls,  down  the  nape 
of  her  white  neck,  along  the  sides  of  her  head,  covering 
her  little  ears,  still  shapely.  Her  face  was  white  as 
death,  but  still  it  held  traces  in  its  features,  sharpened 
and  refined,  of  what  once  was  a  tender  and  joyous  beauty 
of  its  own — a  beauty  now  high  and  spiritual.  In  her 
time  Aurora  Lane  had  been  known  far  and  wide  as 
a  very  beautiful  girl;  self-willed,  yes;  wild — but  beauti 
ful.  She  did  not  remember  these  things  now,  not  in 
the  least;  and  there  was  no  mirror  left  unbroken  in 
the  place. 

The  evening  waxed  on,  approaching  nine  of  the  clock, 
at  which  time  good  folk  began  to  turn  up  the  porch 

335 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


chairs  against  the  wall  so  that  the  rain  might  not  hurt 
them  if  it  came,  and  to  draw  back  into  the  stuffy  rooms 
and  to  prepare  for  the  use  of  the  stuffy  beds.  Fathers 
of  families  now  drank  deeply  at  the  pitcher  of  ice  water 
left  on  the  center  table.  One  little  group  after  another, 
visible  here  and  there  on  the  porches  or  the  stairs  along 
the  little  street,  lessened  and  gradually  disappeared.  One 
by  one  the  lights  went  out  all  over  the  town.  By  ten 
o'clock  the  town  would  have  settled  down  to  slumber. 
It  was  Monday,  and  on  Monday  night  not  even  the  most 
ardent  swains  frequent  hammocks  or  front  parlors  at 
an  hour  so  late  as  ten  o'clock  in  our  town,  Saturday  night 
and  the  Lord's  day  being  more  especially  set  apart  for 
these  usages. 

But  the  light  in  Aurora  Lane's  house  still  burned.  She 
did  not  know  how  late  it  was.  The  clock  on  the  mantel 
was  silent,  for  it  had  been  broken  by  the  men  who  had 
been  there  the  night  before.  She  sat  motionless  as  a 
woman  of  stone.  Not  even  her  boy  was  there — not  even 
Miss  Julia  was  there.  She  was  alone — with  her  future, 
and  with  her  past. 

It  must  have  been  toward  midnight  when  at  length 
Aurora  Lane  raised  her  head,  turned  a  little.  She  had 
heard  a  sound !  A  sharp  pang  of  terror  caught  at  her— 
sheer,  unreasoning  terror.  Were  they  coming  again? 
But  no,  it  was  not  the  sound  of  many  footfalls,  not 
the  sound  of  many  voices. 

336 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

What  came  to  her  now  was  a  single  sound,  not  made 
up  of  others — a  low,  definite  sound.  And  it  was  not 
at  her  door  in  front — it  was  at  the  side  of  the  house — 
it  was  at  her  window! 

It  was  a  slight  sound — a  sort  of  tapping  rhythmically 
repeated — a  signal ! 

Aurora  Lane  stopped  breathing — her  heart  stopped  in 
her  bosom.  The  face  was  icy  white  which  she  turned 
toward  the  window  back  of  which  she  heard  this  sound, 
this  signal.  She  thought  she  had  gone  mad.  She  believed 
that  at  last  her  mind  had  broken  under  all  the  trials  that 
had  been  heaped  upon  it.  Then  her  eyes  began  to  move 
about,  startled,  like  those  of  a  wild  deer,  seeking  which 
way  to  leap. 

It  seemed  to  her  she  heard  now  another  sound  in  addi 
tion,  a  sort  of  low  call,  a  word.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  was  her 
name: 

"Aurora !    Aurora !" 

What  could  it  mean  ?  It  was  some  visitor  come  there 
in  insult — it  could  be  no  more  than  that.  And  yet  what 
impiousness,  what  mockery!  Because,  what  she  heard, 
she  had  heard  before!  It  had  been  twenty  years  since, 
and  more — but  she  had  heard  it  then. 

Resolved  suddenly  to  brave  the  worst,  whatever  it 
might  be,  she  rose  and  swiftly  stepped  to  the  side  door 
which  made  out  upon  the  narrow  yard. 

A  man  was  standing  near  the  door,  now  turning 

337 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


away  from  the  window — a  tall  man,  slouching  down  like 
an  old  man. 

"Who's  there?"  she  cried,  intending  to  call  out  aloud 
to  give  the  alarm,  but  failing  to  raise  her  voice  above 
a  whisper,  such  was  her  fear.  Yes,  it  was  someone 
come  here  to  offer  yet  another  insult. 

But  the  man  came  into  the  field  of  light  which  shone 
around  her  through  the  door — came  closer,  reaching  out 
his  hands  to  her.  She  heard  him  struggling  with  his 
own  voice,  trying  to  speak.  At  last :  "Aurora !  Aurora ! 
Let  me  in!  Will  you  let  me  in?" 

She  threw  open  the  door  so  that  the  light  might 
come.  But  it  was  late.  The  town  slept.  No  one  saw 
the  light.  No  one  saw  the  man  who  entered  her 
door. 

He  came  on  slowly,  bending  down,  groaning,  almost 
sobbing,  it  seemed  to  her.  He  entered  the  room,  sank 
down  into  a  chair.  He  was  that  pitiable  thing,  a  man 
with  his  nerves  set  loose  by  cataclysm  of  the  emo 
tions. 

Not  less  than  this  had  William  Henderson  met  this 
day.  It  had  shortened  actually  his  physical  stature,  had 
altered  every  line  in  his  face.  He  was  twenty  years 
and  more  older  now  than  when  she  had  seen  him  last. 
In  one  short  day  William  Henderson  had  burned  down 
to  a  speck  in  the  cosmic  plan.  He  had  learned  for 
himself  how  little  is  any  man.  And  vanity  torn  out 

338 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

by  the  roots — a  megalomaniac  egotism  done  away  by 
a  capital  operation — a  life-long  self-content,  an  ingrown 
selfishness,  all  wrenched  out  at  once — that  sort  of  thing 
takes  its  toll  in  the  doing. 

William  Henderson  was  paying  his  debts  all  at  once — 
with  interest  accrued,  as  Hod  Brooks  had  said  to  him. 
It  was  an  old,  old,  ashen-faced  man  who  turned  to  her  at 
last,  as  he  came  into  the  little  lighted  room. 

Neither  had  spoken  since  he  came  within.  The  door 
now  was  closed  back  of  him.  No  one  without  could  have 
any  inkling  of  what  went  on  within  this  little  room.  .  .  . 
The  drawn  curtains  .  .  .  the  low  light  .  .  .  the  man  .  .  . 
the  woman  .  .  .  midnight!  All  which  had  been  here 
twenty  years  before  for  setting,  that  same  now  was  here ! 
And  if  there  was  ruin  now  of  what  here  once  was  fresh 
and  fair,  if  ruin  lay  about  them  now,  who  had  wrought 
that  ruin? 

.  .  .  Yes,  it  had  been  here.  It  was  at  this  very  place 
— when  she  was  just  starting,  struggling,  young — all  the 
vague,  soft,  mysterious,  compelling  impulses  of  youth  and 
life  just  now  hers — so  strange,  so  strong,  so  sweet,  so 
ineffable,  so  indispensable,  so  little  understood.  .  .  . 

That  had  been  his  signal!  And  when  he  had  rapped 
before — when  he  was  young  and  comely,  not  old  and 
ashen — she  could  no  more  have  helped  opening  the  door 
than  the  white  wisps  from  the  cottonwoods  could  cease 
to  pass  upon  the  air  in  their  ancient  seeking,  blown 

339 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


by  the  spirit  of  life,  coming  from  thither,  passing  thence, 
under  an  impulse  soft,  sweet,  gentle,  unsought  but 
irresistible. 

"Will!"  she  said  at  length.  "Will,  what's  wrong? 
What  have  you  done  ?  What  does  this  mean  ?"  In  some 
sense,  swiftly,  the  past  seemed  back  again,  its  twenty 
years  effaced,  so  that  she  thought  in  terms  of  other 
days. 

He  raised  his  head.  "What,  you  speak  to  me?  You 
said  'Will'  ?  Oh,  Aurie,  Aurie,  don't !— I  can't  stand  it. 
I'm  not  good  enough  for  this." 

"What's  happened?"  she  insisted.  "Why  are  you 
here?" 

He  sat,  his  lips  loosely  working  now,  his  eyes  red, 
his  face  flabby,  his  gray  hair  tumbled  on  his  temples.  It 
was  as  though  all  life's  excesses  and  indulgences  had 
culminated  and  taken  full  revenge  on  him  in  this  one 
day. 

"And  you  can  say  that  to  me?"  he  murmured.  It  was 
very  difficult  for  him  to  talk.  He  was  broken — he  was 
gone — he  was  just  an  old  man — a  shell,  a  rim,  a  ruin 
of  a  man,  now  seeing  himself  as  he  actually  had  been 
all  these  years — God  knows,  a  pitiable  sight,  that,  for 
many  and  many  a  man  of  us  all. 

"I'm — I'm  afraid,  Will!  Last  night — it  broke  me, 
someway — I  don't  think  much  more  can  happen.  ...  I 
can't  think — I  can't  pull  together,  someway.  ...  I  was 

340 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

going  down  to  the  bridge  tonight.  .  .  .  But  I  thought 
of  Don." 

"But  you  couldn't  think  of  me,  Aurora? — Have  you 
ever,  in  all  these  years?" 

She  made  him  no  answer  at  all. 

"No.  You  could  only  hate  the  thought  of  me,"  he 
said.  "What  a  coward  I've  been,  what  a  cur!  Ah, 
what  a  coward  I've  been  all  these  years!" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,  Will,"  she  said.  Dazed,  trou 
bled,  she  was  trying  to  think  in  terms  of  the  present; 
trying,  as  she  had  said,  to  pull  together.  "You  are  Don's 
father.  .  .  .  Well,  you  were  a  man,  Will,"  she  added, 
sighing.  "I  was  only  a  woman." 

She  had  neither  sarcasm  nor  resentfulness  in  her 
words.  It  was  simply  what  she  had  learned  by  herself, 
in  her  own  life,  without  any  great  horizon  in  the 
world. 

"It  was  pretty  hard  sometimes,"  said  she,  after  a  time, 
slowly.  "I  had  to  contrive  so  much.  Putting  the  boy 
through  college — it  began  to  cost  more  the  last  four 
years — so  much  more  than  we  had  supposed  it  would. 

You  know,  sometimes  I  was  almost "  She  flushed 

and  paused. 

"What  was  it,  Aurie?" 

"At  one  time  not  long  ago,  the  bills  were  so  large  that 
we  had  to  pay — it  was  so  hard  to  get  the  money,  I  was 
almost  on  the  point  of  going  to  you — for  him,  you  know 

341 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


— and  to  ask  you  for  a  little  help.  But  that's  all  over 
now." 

"Oh,  I  ought  to  have  come  through — I  ought  to  have 
owned  it  all  up !" 

"Yes,  Will,  you  ought." 

"Why  did  you  keep  it — why  didn't  you  name  me?  I 
always  thought,  for  a  long  time,  that  you  would,  that 
you  must." 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me  anything.  But  at  least, 
Don's  out  now.  Thank  God!  he's  clear — he's  innocent, 
and  they  all  know  it  now.  They  can't  keep  him  down, 
can  they?  He  won't  have  as  hard  a  time  as  I've  had? 
He'll  succeed,  won't  he  ?  He  must,  after  it  all !" 

"Yes,"  said  the  man,  shaking  as  in  a  palsy,  "after  it 
all,  he  ought  to,  and  I  pray  he  may."  But  he  could  talk 
no  more. 

"And  he's  such  a  fine  boy!  I  don't  see  how  you 
could " 

"How  I  could  disown  him?    Yesterday?" 

She  nodded.  "I  can't  understand  that.  I  never  could. 
I  can't  see  how  you  could  hesitate.  I — I  wish  you  hadn't. 
I — I  can't  forgive  that."  Her  voice  rose  slightly  at  last, 
a  spot  of  color  came  into  her  pallid  cheek. 

"I  didn't  have  the  courage  to  come  through  square, 
and  that's  the  truth  about  it.  I've  never  had,  all  along. 
Maybe  a  man  doesn't  have  the  same  feeling  that  a  woman 
does  about  a  child — I  don't  know.  But  I  was  worse  than 

342 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

the  average  man — more  selfish.  I  got  caught  up  in  poli 
tics,  in  business.  Success? — well,  I  saw  how  hard  it  is. 
I  thought  I  had  to  keep  down  the  past.  Well,  it's  over 
now.  But  as  for  you " 

"I  lived  it  down  for  a  good  many  years.  Don's  twenty- 
two  now." 

"But  how  could  you  keep  that  secret — what  made  you  ? 
Why  didn't  you  go  into  court  and  force  me  to  do  my 
duty  to  my  own  flesh  and  blood — and  to  you?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "I  told  you,  I  don't 
know.  Maybe  I  was  proud.  Maybe  I  thought  I'd  wait 
till  you  shamed  your  own  self  into  coming.  I'm  glad 
you've  come  now,  at  last.  I  don't  know — maybe  I 
thought  some  day  you  would." 

"I'm  not  Judge  Henderson!"  he  broke  out  bitterly. 
"I'm  Arthur  Dimmesdale!  I  ought  to  be  in  the  pillory, 
on  the  gallows,  before  this  town.  I'm  a  thief  and  a 
coward,  and  I  deserve  no  pity,  neither  of  man  nor  of 
God  himself.  You've  carried  all  the  blame,  when  I  was 
the  one  to  blame.  And  I  can't  see  why  you  didn't  tell, 
Aurie — what  made  you  keep  it  all  a  secret  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  she  simply  again.  "I  don't  know. 
It  seemed — it  seemed  somehow  to  me — sacred — what  was 
between  us !  It  was — Don !  I  have  never  told  anyone. 
I  was  waiting,  hoping  you'd  come — for  your  own  sake. 
Why  should  I  rob  you  of  your  chance?" 

"Thank  God  that  you  did  keep  the  secret!"  he  broke 

343 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


out  at  length.  "It's  all  the  chance  I  have  left  to  be  a 
man.  At  least  I'll  confess  the  truth." 

"Why,  Will,  what  do  you  mean?  I'll  never  tell.  I 
told  you  I  wouldn't — I  swore  I  wouldn't. 

"I'll  be  going  away  before  long,  Will,"  she  added.  "I 
can't  stay  here  now.  I  suppose  Don  and  I  will  go  away 
somewhere.  I'm  glad  he's  found  a  good  girl.  Ah ! — 
Anne,  she's  splendid.  .  .  .  I'm  not  going  to  make  any 
objections  to  his  marrying  her.  And,  you  see,  I'll  know 
that  you  came  here.  And  some  time  he  will  know — who 
was  his  father.  He  doesn't,  yet.  In  justice,  some  time 
he  will.  God  will  attend  to  that,  not  any  of  us." 

"All  the  world  shall  know  it,  Aurora!"  said  the  man 
at  her  side.  "I  saw  them  a  little  while  ago,  walking 
together.  He  was  listening  to  the  drums.  He  was  look 
ing  at  the  Flag — and  so  was  she.  They  are  up  at  my 
house  now.  They're  happy.  God  bless  them." 

"But  they  don't  know— you've  not  told  ?" 

"No,  I've  been  walking  out  in  the  country — all  eve 
ning.  I  was  up  there — on  the  road  to  the  Calvary  Ceme 
tery.  I'm  going  to  tell  Don  the  truth  tomorrow. 

"But  look  at  your  house — your  poor  little  home."  He 
cast  about  him  a  gaze  which  took  in  the  ruin  that  had 
been  made  of  all  her  belongings.  "Oh,  my  God,  Au 
rora  !  It  was  my  own  fault.  It  was  /  who  made  that 
mob  a  possible  thing.  And  you  were  a  good  woman. 
You've  been  a  good  woman  all  the  time.  I  never  knew 

344 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

before  what  a  splendid  thing  a  woman  can  be.  Why — 
strong!  .  .  .  And  you  called  me  'Will'  just  now.  What 
made  you  do  that?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Aurora  Lane.  "I  suppose  a 
woman  never  does  quite  forget  the — the  first  man  of — 
of  her  life." 

"But  how  sweet  it  all  was,"  he  broke  out,  "in  spite 
of  it  all,  in  spite  of  everything!  Oh,  Aurie,  don't  you 
remember  when  I'd  come  and  tap  there  on  the  window — 
and  you'd  come  and  let  me  in  ?  I  don't  deserve  even  that 
memory  ...  a  woman  like  you — and  a  man  like  me. 
But  I  can't  forget  it.  And  you  let  me  come  in  now — 
that's  my  one  last  joy  left  for  all  my  life.  Why,  it's  the 
one  thing  I  can  never  think  of  again  without  a  shudder. 
Yes,  I've  come  without  your  asking — and  you — you've 
let  me  in. 

"Aurie,"  he  went  on,  "that's  what  leaves  me  so  help 
less.  I  know  what  I  deserve — but  I  don't  want  to  be 
despised.  ...  I  want  more  than  I  deserve !  I've  always 
had  more  than  I  deserved.  It's  about  all  any  man  can 
say.  It's  life  itself,  I  suppose.  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 
But,  Aurie,  Aurie,  I  do  see  a  thousand  things  now  I 
never  saw  before." 

She  still  sat,  white,  dumb.  Only,  now,  her  head  began 
to  move,  slowly,  from  side  to  side,  He  caught  the  evi 
dence  of  negative,  and  a  new  resolution  came  to  him 
at  last. 

345 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Let  it  all  go!'*  he  said  at  length — and  now  indeed 
he  was  on  his  knees  at  her  side,  "What  I  have  lost 
is  nothing.  I'll  never  ask  for  office  until  I  have  Kved 
here  twenty  years,  openly,  as  you  have.  I  must  have 
loved  you!  I  did — I  do!  I  do!  I  wish  I  were  fit  to 
love  you  now.  Because,  in  twenty  years  more.  .  .  .  The 
years  pass,  Aurie.  Won't  they  pass  ?  My  sentence " 

His  gray  head  was  bent  down  low  in  her  lap  now,  as 
her  son's  had  been  at  this  very  place  but  a  day  before. 
Her  hands — hands  stained  with  needle  work,  rough  on 
the  finger  ends,  the  taper  gone  there  into  a  little  square 
— were  the  same  long  shapely  hands  that  had  touched 
his  hair  at  another  time.  The  eyes  that  looked  down 
at  him  now  under  long,  soft,  dark  lashes  were  the  same. 
But  they  were  more  brooding — tender,  yes,  but  more  sad, 
more  wise.  There  was  no  passion  in  her  gaze,  in  her 
touch.  What  was  hatred  or  revenge  to  her? 

His  face  was  hid  deep  in  his  hands  as  he  knelt.  It 
lay  there  in  that  haven,  the  lap  of  woman,  the  place  of 
forgiveness — and  of  hope,  as  some  vague  memory  seemed 
to  say  to  him.  Indeed,  all  the  wisdom  and  all  the  mercy 
and  all  the  hope  of  a  world  or  of  a  universe  of  worlds 
were  in  the  low  voice  of  Aurora  Lane  as  she  stroked 
back  his  hair — the  gray  hair  of  an  old  man,  who  knelt 
beside  her.  It  was  the  ancient  pitying  instinct  of  woman 
that  was  in  her  touch.  Hardly  she  knew  she  touched 
him,  so  impersonal  was  it  all  to  her. 

346 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

"Will,  you  poor  boy,  you  poor  boy!  Oh,  poor  boy!" 
He  heard  her  voice  once  more.  Suddenly  he  raised  his 
head,  he  sprang  up,  he  stood  before  her. 

"You  do  forgive  me !"  A  sort  of  triumph  was  in  the 
eager  note  of  his  voice.  "You  say  'poor  boy!'  You  do 
forgive  me!"  He  advanced  toward  her. 

But  Aurora  also  had  risen  quickly.  Now,  suddenly, 
some  shock  came  to  her,  vivifying,  clarifying.  The  nee 
dle  of  her  heart  swung  on  the  dial  of  Today. 

"Forgive  you !"  she  exclaimed,  her  color  suddenly  gone 
high.  "Forgive  you — what  do  you  mean  ? — what  do  you 
mean?" 

"You  said  you  pitied  me " 

"Pity  you,  yes,  I  do.  I'm  sorry  for  you  from  the  bot 
tom  of  my  heart.  I'd  be  sorry  to  see  any  man  go  through 
what  you've  got  to  face.  Yes,  pity  you — but — love  you  ? 
What  do  you  mean?  Is  that  what  you  mean?  Respect 
you — is  that  what  you  mean  ?  Oh,  no  !  Oh,  no !  Use 
for  you,  in  any  way  in  the  world?-— Oh,  no!  Oh,  no! 
Don't  mistake.  Pity — that's  all!  Don't  I  know  what  it 
means  to  descend  into  hell?  And  that's  what  you  must 
do." 

"But,  Aurie — Aurie — you  just  said " 

"I  said  I  was  sorry  for  you,  and  so  I  am,  in  all  my 
heart.  But  he's  our  boy.  I've  paid  my  share  in  anguish. 
So  must  you." 

"Haven't  I?     Haven't  I?" 

347 


THE  BROKEN  GATE 


"Not  yet!  You're  only  beginning.  It  takes  twenty 
years. — Oh,  not  of  hidden  and  secret  repentance — but 
open  repentance,  before  all  the  world !  And  square  liv 
ing.  And  your  prayer  to  God  each  night  for  twenty 
years  for  understanding  and  forgiveness! 

"Go  out  and  earn  it,"  she  said,  walking  to  the  door 
and  opening  it.  "Pity? — yes.  Love?  No — no — no! 
I've  no  use  for  you.  I  don't  need  you  now.  My  boy 
doesn't  need  you — we're  able  to  stand  alone.  We've  suc 
ceeded!  You?  You're  a  failure — you're  a  broken-down, 
used-up,  hopeless  failure — so  much,  I'm  sorry  for  you, 
sorry. 

"You  didn't  really  think  I'd  ever  take  you  back,  did 
you,  Will?"  she  went  on,  eager  to  be  fair  even  now.  "I 
was  only  sorry  for  you,  that's  all.  God  knows,  I'm  sorry 
for  any  human  being,  woman  or  man,  that  has  to  go 
through  hell  as  I  have.  Twenty  years?  That'll  leave 
you  old,  Will.  But — go  serve  it,  in  this  town,  as  I  have ! 
And  God  have  mercy  on  your  soul !" 

She  flung  the  door  yet  wider,  and  stumbling,  he  began 
to  grope  toward  it.  The  black  wall  of  the  night  lay 
beyond. 

Slowly  the  color  faded  from  the  cheeks  of  the  woman 
now  left  alone  yet  again.  She  sank  down,  crumpling, 
white,  her  face  marble  clear,  her  eyes  staring  straight 
ahead  at  what  picture  none  may  ask.  Then,  as  the  white 
column  of  her  throat  fluttered  again,  she  beat  one  hand 

348 


BECAUSE  SHE  WAS  A  WOMAN 

slightly  against  the  other,  ere  she  crushed  them  both  to 
gether  in  her  lap,  ere  she  flung  them  wide  above  her. 

"God !  God !"  cried  Aurora  Lane.  "If  it  wasn't  right, 
why  did  He  say,  'Suffer  little  children'?  It  was  in  the 
Book  .  .  .  little  .  .  .  little  children  ...  the  Kingdom 
of  Heaven !" 

It  was  more  than  an  hour  before  she,  too,  rose  and, 
stepping  toward  the  door,  looked  out  again  into  the  night. 
A  red  light  showed  here  or  there.  Homes — the  homes 
of  our  town. 


(i) 


IB  32968 


M18202 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


